AMERICAN PROSE 



(1607-1865) 



■2,7 -* 



SELECTED AND EDITED, WITH ILLUSTRATIVE AND 
EXPLANATORY NOTES AND A BIBLIOGRAPHY 

BY 

Walter C; Bronson, Litt.D. 

Professor of English Literature, Brown University 




THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS 
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS 



31 



Copyright iqi6 By 
The University of Chicago 



All Rights Reserved 



Published July 1916 




JUL 2.1. 11)16 



Composed and Printed By 
The University of Chicago Press- 
Chicago, Illinois, U.S.A. 



PCI.A431939 



PREFACE 

This book is a companion volume to American Poems, and 
like that is intended chiefly for use in schools and colleges. 
The selections from American prose of the seventeenth and 
eighteenth centuries are expected to supply all the reading 
in these periods that most classes will need; they have been 
chosen for their historical significance as well as their literary 
interest, and represent the various phases of American life in 
colonial and revolutionary times. The selections from the 
prose of the nineteenth century are limited to tales, essays, 
and orations by the greater writers, and stop with the end of the 
Civil War; this limitation of scope has made it possible to in- 
clude ample material for classroom study and much for outside 
reading, in the chief authors, and in most cases to print complete 
works. It may be especially noted that the speeches by Cal- 
houn, Webster, and Lincoln afford a basis for the study of 
American oratory in its prime, and at a great crisis in the history 
of the nation. 

The text follows with scrupulous care the text of the early 
editions. I have reproduced spelling, capitalization, punctu- 
ation, use of italics, etc., in the belief that- students should 
read even the older works as they originally appeared, thus 
becoming familiar with their flavor and atmosphere, and gaining 
a sense of the historical development of language and typo- 
graphical usage. The interchange of i and/ and of u and v has 
not been kept, however, because it is confusing to inexperienced 
readers; and obvious misprints, and a few eccentricities of 
punctuation and capitalization that obscured the thought, have 
been corrected. 

The explanatory notes are few and brief, dealing only with 
points of real difficulty to students of average intelligence. The 
illustrative notes consist mainly of specimens of contemporary 



VI PREFACE 

criticism on writers of the nineteenth century; they have been 
collected from many sources, and show the impression made at 
home and abroad by the most famous American authors during 
their lifetime. 

My thanks are due to Mr. Champlin Burrage, librarian 
of the John Carter Brown Library at Brown University, and to 
his assistants, for aid in utilizing the resources of that unique 
collection of Americana; to Librarian Harry L. Koopman and 
his staff, for facilitating my use of the Brown University Library; 
and to Doubleday, Page & Co., and Mr. J. S. Bassett, for 
permission to print extracts from the copyright edition of 
William Byrd's works. My wife has been co-editor of the book, 
helping in the choice of material, aiding in the collation of texts, 
preparing the copy, making the indices, and sharing in the labor 
of reading the proofs. 

W. C. B. 

La Jolla, California 
April 6, 1916 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 



Preface 



John Smith 

From A True Relation i 

From A Map of Virginia 4 

William Bradford 

From Of Plimoth Plantation 

The Pilgrims' Search for a Harbor 7 

The First Winter 11 

Ungodly Doings at Merry Mount 14 

Thomas Morton 

From New English Canaan 16 

OHN WlNTHROP 

A Puritan to His Wife f 17 

From The History of New England 

A Theological Commonwealth 19 

A Colonial Schoolmaster 20 ' 

Anti-Episcopal Mice 23 

Divine Discipline 23 

Heresy Punished 24 

Preternatural Phenomena 25 

A Puritan Blue-Stocking 25 

Witchcraft 26 

The Snake in the Synod 27 

The Special Hand of God 28 

Thomas Shepard 

From The Sincere Convert 29 

Roger Williams 

From The Bloudy Tenent of Persecution for Cause of Conscience 

From The Preface S3 

The Answer of Mr. John Cotton of Boston in New-England 34 
A Reply to the Aforesaid Answer of Mr. Cotton in a Con- 
ference betweene Truth and Peace 36 

vii 



viil CONTENTS 



Nathaniel Ward 

From The Simple Cobler of Aggawam 

The Impious Doctrine of Toleration . 42 

Women's Fashions and Long Hair on Men 46 

John Mason 

From A Brief History of the Pequot War 50 

Mary Rowlandson 

From A Narrative of the Captivity 54 

Increase Mather 

From An Essay for the Recording of Illustrious Providences 

A Bewitched House 63 

Probation of Witches by Cold Water ....... 67 

Cotton Mather 

From The Wonders of the Invisible World 

The Trial of Bridget Bishop: alias, Oliver 71 

From Magnalia Christi Americana 

Captain Phips's Search for Sunken Treasure 77 

Thomas Hooker 80 

John Eliot, Apostle to the Indians 82 

A Bewitched Child 83 

Samuel Sewall 

From The Diary 89 

Sarah K. Knight 

From The Journal 105 

William Byrd 

From History of the Dividing Line 113 

From A Progress to the Mines .119 

Jonathan Edwards 

The Sweet Glory of God 122 

From Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God 124 

From Enquiry into the Freedom of the Will 128 

John Woolman 

From The Journal 

Slavery ' 133 

Religious Scruples against Dyed Garments 134 

A Spiritual Vision ' 136 



CONTENTS ix 



J. Hector St. John Crevecceur 
Letters from an American Farmer 

From Letter III. What Is an American ? 138 

Letter X. On Snakes; and on the Humming Bird . . . 142 

Benjamin Franklin 

From The Autobiography 

A Boyish Leader 148 

Learning to Write 149 

Entrance into Philadelphia 150 

Success in Business 151 

Religion 151 

The Pursuit of Moral Perfection 152 

Whitefield's Eloquence 155 

Benevolent Cunning 156 

The Way to Wealth 158 

The Ephemera 166 

Dialogue between Franklin and the Gout 168 

Letters 

To Mrs. Jane Mecom 173 

To Benjamin Webb 174 

To Samuel Mather 175 

John Dickinson 

From Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania 

Letter I 176 

Samuel Seabury 

From Free Thoughts on the Proceedings of the Continental 

Congress . 180 

Francis Hopkinson 

A Pretty Story 183 

Patrick Henry 

Speech in the Virginia Convention of Delegates 197 

Ethan Allen 

From A Narrative of Col. Ethan Allen's Captivity .... 200 

Thomas Paine 

From Common Sense 202 



CONTENTS 



Thomas Jefferson 

The Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen United States of 

America 205 

George Washington 

Answer to Congress on His Appointment as Commander-in-Chief 209 

To Mrs. Martha Washington 209 

From A Letter to the President of Congress 211 

From Farewell Address 214 

Alexander Hamilton 

From The Federalist 

Further Defects of the Present Constitution 216 

Washington Irving 

From A History of New York 224 

From The Sketch Book 

Rip Van Winkle 229 

The Mutability of Literature • . 243 

From Tales of a Traveller 

The Strolling Manager 252 

From The Alhambra 

Legend of the Arabian Astrologer ........ 264 

Edgar Allan Poe 

A Descent into the Maelstrom 280 

The Fall of the House of Usher 295 

The Pit and the Pendulum 313 

The Purloined Letter 327 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 

The American Scholar 345 

The Over-Soul 362 

Nature 377 

Behavior 391 

Nathaniel Hawthorne 

The Minister's Black Veil 406 

Dr. Heidegger's Experiment 418 

Rappaccini's Daughter ' . . . . 428 

Feathertop; a Moralized Legend 455 



CONTENTS xi 

Henry D. Thoreau 
From Walden 

Where I Lived, and What I Lived For 474 

Brute Neighbors 487 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 

From The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table 

IV '498 

V 518 

James Russell Lowell 

From Leaves from My Journal in Italy and Elsewhere 

At Sea 536 

Abraham Lincoln 544 

Carlyle 564 

John C. Calhoun 

Speech on the Slavery Question 589 

Daniel Webster 

The Constitution and the Union 608 

Abraham Lincoln 

Address at Cooper Institute 647 

Address at the Dedication of the Gettysburg National Cemetery . 666 

Second Inaugural Address 667 

Notes 671 

Bibliography 717 

Index of Authors 735 

Index of Titles 735 



JOHN SMITH 

FROM 

A TRUE RELATION 

40. miles I passed up ye river, which for the most part is a quarter 
of a mile broad, & 3. fatham & a half deep, exceeding osey, many great 
low marshes, & many high lands, especially about ye midst at a place 
called Moysonicke, a Peninsule of 4. miles ci[r]cuit, betwixt two rivers 
joyned to the main, by a neck of 40. or 50. yards, and 40. or 50 
yards from the high water marke: on both sides in the very necke 
of the maine, are high hills and dales, yet much inhabited, the 
He declining in a plaine fertile corne field, the lower end a low 
marsh. More plentie of swannes, cranes, geese, duckes, and mallards, 
& divers sorts of fowles none would desire: more plaine fertile planted 
ground, in such great proportions as there I had not seene, of a light 
blacke sandy mould, the cliffes commonly red, white and yellowe 
coloured sand, & under red & white clay; fish great plenty, & people 
aboundance, the most of their inhabitants, in view of ye neck of 
Land, where a better seat for a towne cannot be desired. At the end 
of forty miles this river invironeth many low Hands, at each high 
water drowned for a mile, where it uniteth it selfe, at a place called 
Apokant the highest Towne inhabited. 

10. miles higher I discovered with the barge: in the mid way, a 
great tree hindred my passage which I cut in two: heere the river 
became narrower, 8. 9 or 10. foote at a high water, and 6. or 7. at a 
lowe: the streame exceeding swift, & the bottom hard channell, the 
ground most part a low plaine, sandy soyle. This occasioned me to 
suppose it might issue from some lake or some broad ford, for it could 
not be far to the head, but rather then I would endanger the barge, 
Yet to have beene able to resolve this doubt, & to discharge the im- 
putation of malicious tungs, that halfe suspected I durst not for so long 
delaying, some of the company as desirous as my self, we resolved 
to hier a Canow, and returne with the barge to Apocant, there to leave 
the barge secure, and put our selves uppon the adventure: the 



AMERICAN PROSE 



country onely a vast and wilde wildernes, and but onely that Towne. 
Within three or foure mile we hired a Canow, and 2. Indians to row 
us ye next day a fowling: having made such provision for the barge as 
was needfull, I left her there to ride, with expresse charge not any to 
go ashore til my returne. Though some wise men may condemn 
this too bould attempt of too much indiscretion, yet if they well con- 
sider the friendship of the Indians, in conducting me, the desolatenes 
of the country, the propabilitie of some lacke, & the malicious judges 
of my actions at home, as also to have some matters of worth to 
incourage our adventurers in england, might well have caused any 
honest minde to have done the like, as wel for his own discharge as 
for the publike good. 

Having 2 Indians for my guide & 2 of our own company, I set 
forward, leaving 7 in the barge. Having discovered 20 miles further 
in this desart, the river stil kept his depth and bredth, but much 
more combred with trees.. Here we went ashore (being some 12 miles 
higher then ye barge had bene) to refresh our selves, during the 
boyling of our vituals: one of the Indians I tooke with me, to see the 
nature of the soile, & to crosse the boughts of the river: the other 
Indian I left with M. Robbinson and Thomas Emry, with their matches 
light and order to discharge a peece, for my retreat at the first sight of 
any Indian. But within a quarter of a houre I heard a loud cry, 
and a hollowing of Indians, but no warning peece. Supposing 
them surprised, and that the Indians had betraid us, presently I 
seazed him & bound his arme fast to my hand in a garter, with my 
pistoll ready bent to be revenged on him: he advised me to fly, 
and seemed ignorant of what was done. But as we went discoursing, 
I was struck with an arrow on the right thigh,. but without harme: 
upon this occasion I espied 2 Indians drawing their bowes, which I 
prevented in discharging a french pistoll. By that I had charged 
againe 3 or 4 more did the like, for the first fell downe and fled: 
at my discharge they did the like. My hinde I made my barricado, 
who offered not to strive. 20. or 30. arrowes were shot at me but 
short. 3 or 4 times I had discharged my pistoll ere the king of 
Pamaunck called Opeckankenough with 200 men, invironed me, 
eache drawing their bowe, which done they laid them upon the 
ground, yet without shot. My hinde treated betwixt them and me 
of conditions of peace; he discovered me to be the Captaine: my 



JOHN SMITH 



request was to retire to ye boate: they demaunded my armes, the 
rest they saide were slaine, onely me they would reserve. 

The Indian importuned me not to shoot. In retiring being in 
the midst of a low quagmire, and minding them more then my steps, 
I stept fast into the quagmire, and also the Indian in drawing me 
forth. Thus surprised, I resolved to trie their mercies: my armes I 
caste from me, till which none durst approch me. Being ceazed on 
me, they drew me out and led me to the King. I presented him with 
a compasse diall, describing by my best meanes the use therof , whereat 
he so amazedly admired, as he suffered me to proceed in a discourse 
of the roundnes of the earth, the course of the sunne, moone, starres 
and plannets. With kinde speeches and bread he requited me, con- 
ducting me where the Canow lay and John Robbinson slaine, with 
20 or 30. arrowes in him. Entry I saw not. I perceived by the 
aboundance of fires all over the woods, At each place I expected 
when they would execute me, yet they used me with what kindnes 
they could. 

Approaching their Towne, which was within 6 miles where I was 
taken, onely made as arbors and covered with mats, which they 
remove as occasion requires: all the women and children, being 
advertised of this accident, came foorth to meet them, the King well 
guarded with 20 bowmen 5 flanck and rear, and each flanck before 
him a sword & a peece, and after him the like, then a bowman, then 
I on each hand a boweman, the rest in file in the reare, which reare 
led foorth amongst the trees in a bishion, eache his bowe and a hand- 
full of arrowes, a quiver at his back grimly painted: on eache flanck a 
sargeant, the one running alwaies towards the front the other towards 
the reare, each a true pace and in exceeding good order. This being 
a good time continued, they caste themselves in a ring with a daunce, 
and so eache man departed to his lodging. 

The Captain conducting me to his lodging, a quarter of Venison 
and some ten pound of bread I had for supper : what I left was reserved 
for me, and sent with me to my lodging. Each morning 3. women 
presented me three great platters of fine bread, more venison then 
ten men could devour I had: my gowne, points and garters, my 
compas and a tablet they gave me again. Though 8 ordinarily 
guarded me, I wanted not what they could devise to content me: 
and still our longer acquaintance increased our better affection. 



AMERICAN PROSE 



FROM 

A MAP OF VIRGINIA 

They [the Indians] are very strong, of an able body and full of 
agilitie, able to endure to lie in the woods under a tree by the fire, 
in the worst of winter, or in the weedes and grasse, in Ambuscado in 
the Sommer. They are inconstant in everie thing, but what feare 
constraineth them to keepe. Craftie, timerous, quicke of appre- 
hension & very ingenuous. Some are of disposition fearefull, some 
bold, most cautelous, all Savage. GeneraUy covetous of coppeer, 
beads, & such like trash. They are soone moved to anger, and so 
malitious, that they seldome forget an injury: they seldome steale 
one from another, least their conjurers should reveale it, and so 
they be pursued and punished. That they are thus feared is 
certaine, but that any can reveale their offences by conjuration 
I am doubtfull. Their women are carefull not to bee suspected of 
dishonesty without the leave of their husbands. Each houshold 
knoweth their owne lands & gardens, and most live of their owne 
labours. 

For their apparell, they are some time covered with the skinnes 
of wilde beasts, which in winter are dressed with the haire, but in som- 
mer without. The better sort use large mantels of deare skins not 
much differing in fashion from the Irish mantels. Some imbrodered 
with white beads, some with copper, other painted after their manner. 
But the common sort have scarce to cover their nakednesse but with 
grasse, the leaves of trees, or such like. We have seen some use 
mantels made of Turky feathers, so prettily wrought and woven 
with threeds that nothing could bee discerned but the feathers, that 
was exceeding warme and very handsome. But the women are 
alwaies covered about their midles with a skin and very shamefast 
to be seene bare. They adorne themselves most with copper beads 
and paintings. Their women some have their legs, hands, brests and 
face cunningly imbrodered with diverse workes, as beasts, serpentes, 
artificially wrought into their flesh with blacke spots. In each eare 
commonly they have 3 great holes, whereat they hange chaines 
bracelets or copper. Some of their men weare in those holes, a smal 
greene & yellow coloured snake, neare halfe a yard in length, which 
crawling & lapping her selfe about his necke often times familiarly 
would kisse his lips. Others wear a dead Rat tied by the tail. Some 



JOHN SMITH 



on their heads weare the wing of a bird, or some large feather with a 
Rattell. Those Rattels are somewhat like the chape of a Rapier but 
lesse, which they take from the taile of a snake. Many have the 
whole skinne of a hawke or some strange fowle, stuffed with the wings 
abroad. Others a broad peece of copper, and some the hand of their 
enemy dryed. Their heads and shoulders are painted red with the 
roote Pocone braied to powder mixed with oyle, this they hold in 
somer to preserve them from the heate, and in winter from the cold. 
Many other formes of paintings they use, but he is the most gallant 
that is the most monstrous to behould. 

Their buildings & habitations are for the most part by the rivers 
or not farre distant from some fresh spring. Their houses are built 
like our Arbors of small young springs bowed and tyed, and so close 
covered with mats, or the barkes of trees very handsomely, that not- 
withstanding either winde, raine or weather, they are as warme as 
stooves, but very smoaky, yet at the toppe of the house there is a 
hole made for the smoake to goe into right over the fire. Against 
the fire they lie on little hurdles of Reedes covered with a mat, borne 
from the ground a foote and more by a hurdle of wood. On these 
round about the house they lie heads and points one by thother against 
the fire, some covered with mats, some with skins, and some starke 
naked lie on the ground, from 6 to 20 in a house. Their houses are 
in the midst of their fields or gardens which are smal plots of ground, 
some 20, some 40. some 100 some 200. some more, some lesse; some 
times from 2 to 100 of those houses togither, or but a little separated 
by groves of trees. Neare their habitations is little small wood or 
old trees on the ground, by reason of their burning of them for fire. 
So that a man may gallop a horse amongst these woods any waie, but 
where the creekes or Rivers shall hinder. 

Men women and children have their severall names according to 
the severall humor of their Parents. Their women (they say) are 
easilie delivered of childe, yet doe they love children verie dearly. 
To make them hardy, in the coldest mornings they wash them in the 
rivers and by painting and ointments so tanne their skins, that after 
a year or two, no weather will hurt them. 

The men bestowe their times in fishing, hunting, wars & such 
manlike exercises, scorning to be seene in any woman like exercise, 
which is the cause that the women be verie painefull and the men 



AMERICAN PROSE 



often idle. The women and children do the rest of the worke. They 
make mats, baskets, pots, morters, pound their come, make their 
bread, prepare their victuals, plant their corne, gather their corne, 
beare al kind of burdens and such like. 

Their fire they kindle presently by chafing a dry pointed sticke in 
a hole of a little square peece of wdod, that firing it selfe, will so fire 
mosse, leaves, or anie such like drie thing, that will quickly burne. 

In March and Aprill they live much upon their fishing weares, and 
feed on fish, Turkies and squirrels. In May and June they plant 
their fieldes and live most of Acornes, walnuts, and fish. But to 
mend their diet, some disperse themselves in small companies & 
live upon fish, beasts, crabs, oysters, land Torteyses, straw berries, 
mulberries, & such like. In June, Julie, and August they feed upon 
the rootes of Tocknough berries, fish and greene wheat. It is strange 
to see how their bodies alter with their diet, even as the deare and 
wilde beastes they seeme fat and leane, strong and weak. Powhatan 
their great king and some others that are provident, rost their fish and 
flesh upon hurdles as before is expressed, and keepe it till scarce 
times. 

For fishing and hunting and warres they use much their bow and 
arrowes. They bring their bowes to the forme of ours by the scraping 
of a shell. Their arrowes are made some of straight young sprigs 
which they head with bone, some 2 or 3 inches long. These they use 
to shoot at squirrels on trees. An other sort of arrowes they use 
made of reeds. These are peeced with wood, headed with splinters 
of christall or some sharpe stone, the spurres of a Turkey, or the bill 
of some bird. For his knife he hath the splinter of a reed to cut his 
feathers in forme. With this knife also, he will joint a Deare or any 
beast, shape his shooes, buskins, mantels, &c. To make the noch of 
his arrow hee hath the tooth of a Bever, set in a sticke, wherewith he 
grateth it by degrees. His arrow head he quickly maketh with a 
little bone, which he ever weareth at his bracer, of any splint of a 
stone, or glasse in the forme of a hart; and these they glew to the 
end of their arrowes. With the sinewes of Deare, and the tops of 
Deares homes boiled to a jelly, they make a glew that will not dissolve 
in cold water. 

For their wars also they use Targets that are round and made of 
the barkes of trees, and a sworde of wood at their backs, but often- 



WILLIAM BRADFORD 



times they use for swords the home of a Deare put through a peece 
of wood in forme of a Pickaxe. Some, a long stone sharpned at both 
ends used in the same manner. This they were wont to use also for 
hatchets, but now by trucking they have plenty of the same forme 
of yron. And those are their chiefe instruments and armes. 

Their fishing is much in Boats. These they make of one tree by 
bowing & scratching away the coles with stons & shels till they have 
made it in forme of a Trough. Some of them are an elne deepe, and 
40 or 50 foot in length, and some will beare 40 men, but the most 
ordinary are smaller and will beare 10, 20, or 30. according to their 
bignes. Insteed of oares, they use paddles and sticks with which they 
will row faster then our Barges. 

Betwixt their hands and thighes, their women use to spin the 
barks of trees, deare sinews, or a kind of grasse they call Pemmenaw; 
of these they make a thred very even & readily. This thred serveth 
for many uses, as about their housing, apparell, as also they make 
nets for fishing, for the quantity as formally braded as ours. They 
make also with it lines for angles. Their hookes are either a 
bone grated as they nock their arrows, in the forme of a crooked 
pinne or fishook, or of the splinter of a bone tied to the clift of a 
litle stick, and with the ende of the line, they tie on the bate. They 
use also long arrowes tyed in a line wherewith they shoote at fish in 
the rivers. But they of Accawmack use staves like unto Javelins 
headed with bone. With these they dart fish swimming in the water. 
They have also many artificiall weares in which they get abundance 
of fish. 

WILLIAM BRADFORD 

FROM 

OF PLIMOTH PLANTATION 

THE PILGRIMS' SEARCH FOR A HARBOR 

The month of November being spente in these affairs, & much 
foule weather falling in, the 6. of Desemr: they sente out their shallop 
againe with 10. of their principall men, & some sea men, upon further 
discovery, intending to circulate that deepe bay of Cap-codd. The 
weather was very could, & it frose so hard as ye sprea of ye sea light- 
ing on their coats, they were as if they had been glased; yet that 



AMERICAN PROSE 



night betimes they gott downe into ye botome of ye bay, and as they 
drue nere ye shore they saw some 10. or 12. Indeans very busie 
aboute some thing. They landed aboute a league or 2. from them, 
and had much a doe to put a shore any wher, it lay so full of flats. 
Being landed, it grew late, and they made them selves a barricade with 
loggs & bowes as well as they could in ye time, & set out their sentenill 
& betooke them to rest, and saw ye smoake of ye fire ye savages made 
yt night. When morning was come they devided their company, 
some to coaste along ye shore in ye boate, and the rest marched 
throw ye woods to see ye land, if any fit place might be for theii 
dwelling. They came allso to ye place wher they saw the Indans 
ye night before, & found they had been cuting up a great fish like a 
grampus, being some 2. inches thike of fate like a hogg, some peeces 
wher of they had left by ye way; and ye shallop found 2. more of 
these fishes dead on ye sands, a thing usuall after storms in yt place, 
by reason of ye great flats of sand that lye of. So they ranged up and 
doune all yt day, but found no people, nor any place they liked. 
When ye sune grue low, they hasted out of ye woods to meete with 
their shallop, to whom they made signes to come to them into a creeke 
hardby, the which they did at high water; of which they were very 
glad, for they had not seen each other all yt day, since ye morning, 
So they made them a barricado (as usually they did every night) with 
loggs, staks, & thike pine bowes, ye height of a man, leaving it open 
to leeward, partly to shelter them from ye could & wind (making their 
fire in ye midle, & lying round aboute it) , and partly to defend them 
from any sudden assaults of ye savags, if they should surround them. 
So being very weary, they betooke them to rest. But aboute mid- 
night, they heard a hideous & great crie, and their sentinell caled, 
"Arme, arme"; so they bestired them & stood to their armes, & 
shote of a cupple of moskets, and then the noys seased. They con- 
cluded it was a companie of wolves, or such like willd beasts; for one 
of ye sea men tould them he had often heard shuch a noyse in New- 
found land. So they rested till about 5. of ye clock in the morning; 
for ye tide, & ther purposs to goe from thence, made them be stiring 
betimes. So after praier they prepared for breakfast, and it being 
day dawning, it was thought best to be earring things downe to ye 
boate. But some said it was not best to carrie ye armes downe, others 
said they would be the readier, for they had laped them up in their coats 



WILLIAM BRADFORD 



from ye dew. But some 3. or 4. would not cary theirs till they wente 
them selves, yet as it fell out, ye water being not high enough, they 
layed them downe on ye banke side, & came up to breakfast. But 
presently, all on ye sudain, they heard a great & strange crie, which 
they knew to be the same voyces they heard in ye night, though they 
varied their notes, & one of their company being abroad came runing 
in, & cried, "Men, Indeans, Indeans"; and wthall, their arowes came 
flying amongst them. Their men rane with all speed to recover their 
armes, as by ye good providence of God they did. In ye mean time, 
of those that were ther ready, tow muskets were discharged at them, 
& 2. more stood ready in ye enterance of ther randevoue, but were 
comanded not to shoote till they could take full aime at them; & ye 
other 2. charged againe with ail speed, for ther were only 4. had 
armes ther, & defended ye baricado which was first assalted. The 
crie of ye Indeans was dreadfull, espetially when they saw ther men 
rune out of ye randevoue towourds ye shallop, to recover their armes, 
the Indeans wheeling aboute upon them. But some running out with 
coats of malle on, & cutlasses in their hands, they soone got their 
armes, & let flye amongs them, and quickly stopped their violence. 
Yet ther was a lustie man, and no less valiante, stood behind a tree 
within halfe a musket shot, and let his arrows flie at them. He was 
seen shoot 3. arrowes, which were all avoyded. He stood 3. shot of a 
musket, till one taking full aime at him, and made ye barke or splinters 
of ye tree fly about his ears, after which he gave an extraordinary 
shrike, and away they wente all of them. They left some to keep 
ye shalop, and followed them aboute a quarter of a mille, and shouted 
once or twise, and shot of 2. or 3. peces, & so returned. This they did, 
that. they might conceive that they were not affrade of them or any 
way discouraged. Thus it pleased God to vanquish their enimies, 
and give them deliverance; and by his spetiall providence so to dis- 
pose that not any one of them were either hurte, or hitt, though 
their arrows came close by them, & on every side them, and sundry of 
their coats, which hunge up in ye barricado, were shot throw & 
throw. Aterwards they gave God sollamne thanks & praise for their 
deliverance, & gathered up a bundle of their arrows, & sente them into 
England afterward by ye mr. of ye ship, and called that place ye 
first encounter. From hence they departed, & costed all along, but 
discerned no place likly for harbor ; & therf ore hasted to a place that 



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their pillote, (one Mr. Coppin who had bine in ye cuntrie before) did 
assure them was a good harbor, which he had been in, and they might 
fetch it before night; of which they were glad, for it begane to be 
foule weather. After some houres sailing, it begane to snow & raine, 
& about ye midle of ye afternoone, ye wind increased, & ye sea 
became very rough, and they broake their rudder, & it was as much as 
2. men could doe to steere her with a cupple of oares. But their 
pillott bad them be of good cheere, for he saw ye harbor; but ye 
storme increasing, & night drawing on, they bore what saile they 
could to gett in, while they could see. But herwith they broake their 
mast in 3. peeces, & their saill fell over bord, in a very grown sea, so 
as they had like to have been cast away; yet by Gods mercie they 
recovered them selves, & having ye floud with them, struck into ye 
harbore. But when it came too, ye pillott was deceived in ye place, 
and said, ye Lord be mercifull unto them, for his eys never saw yt 
place before; & he & the mr. mate would have rune her ashore, in a 
cove full of breakers, before ye winde. But a lusty seaman which 
steered, bad those which rowed, if they were men, about with her, or 
ells they were all cast away ; the which they did with speed. So he bid 
them be of good cheere & row lustly, for ther was a faire sound before 
them, & he doubted not but they should find one place or other wher 
they might ride in saftie. And though it was very darke, and rained 
sore, yet in ye end they gott under ye lee of a smalle iland, and 
remained ther all yt night in saftie. But they knew not this to be an 
iland till morning, but were devided in their minds; some would 
keepe ye boate for fear they might be amongst ye Indians; others 
were so weake and could, they could not endure, but got a shore, & 
with much adoe got fire, (all things being so wett,) and ye rest were 
glad to come to them; for after midnight ye wind shifted to the 
north-west, & it frose hard. But though this had been a day & 
night of much trouble & danger unto them, yet God gave them a 
morning of comforte & refreshing (as usually he doth to his children), 
for ye next day was a faire sunshining day, and they found them 
sellvs to be on an iland secure from ye Indeans, wher they might drie 
their stufe, fixe their peeces, & rest them selves, and gave God 
thanks for his mercies, in their manifould deliverances. And this 
being the last day of ye weeke, they prepared ther to keepe ye Sabath. 
On Munday they sounded ye harbor, and founde it fitt for shipping; 



WILLIAM BRADFORD II 

and marched into ye land, & found diverse cornfeilds, & litle runing 
brooks, a place (as they supposed) fitt for situation; at least it was 
ye best they could find, and ye season, & their presente necessitie, 
made them glad to accepte of it. So they returned to their shipp 
againe with this news to ye rest of their people, which did much corn- 
forte their harts. 

On ye 15. of Desemr: they wayed anchor to goe to ye place 
they had discovered, & came within 2. leagues of it, but were faine to 
bear up againe; but ye 16. day ye winde came faire, and they arrived 
safe in this harbor. And after wards tooke better view of ye place, 
and resolved wher to pitch their dwelling; and ye 25. day begane 
to erecte ye first house for commone use to receive them and their 
goods. 

THE FIRST WINTER 

I shall a litle returne backe and begine with a combination made 
by them before they came ashore, being ye first foundation of their 
govermente in this place; occasioned partly by ye discontented & 
mutinous speeches that some of the strangers amongst them had let 
fall from them in ye ship — That when they came a shore they would 
use their owne libertie; for none had power to command them, the 
patente they had being for Virginia, and not for New-england, which 
belonged to an other Goverment, with which ye Virginia Company 
had nothing to doe. And partly that shuch an acte by them done 
(this their condition considered) might be as firme as any patent, 
and in some respects more sure. 

The forme was as followeth. 

In ye name of God, Amen. We whose names are underwriten, the 
loyall subjects of our dread soveraigne Lord, King James, by ye grace of 
God, of Great Britaine, Franc, & Ireland king, defender of ye faith, &c, 
haveing undertaken, for ye glorie of God, and advancemente of ye Christian 
faith, and honour of our king & countrie, a voyage to plant ye first colonie in 
ye Northerne parts of Virginia, doe by these presents solemnly & mutualy 
in ye presence of God, and one of another, covenant & combine our selves 
togeather into a civill body politick, for our better ordering & preservation & 
furtherance of ye ends aforesaid; and by vertue hearof to enacte, constitute, 
and frame such just & equall lawes, ordinances, acts, constitutions, & offices, 
from time to time, as shall be thought most meete & convenient for ye 
generall good of ye Colonie, unto which we promise all due submission and 



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obedience. In witnes wherof we have hereunder subscribed our names at 
Cap-Codd ye 1 1 . of November, in ye year of ye raigne of our soveraigne lord, 
King James, of England, France, & Ireland ye eighteenth, and of Scotland 
ye fiftie fourth. Ano: Dom. 1620. 

After this they chose, or rather confirmed, Mr. John Carver (a 
man godly & well approved amongst them) their Governour for that 
year. And after they had provided a place for their goods, or comone 
store, (which were long in unlading for want of boats, foulnes of winter 
weather, and sicknes of diverce,) and begune some small cottages 
for their habitation, as time would admitte, they mette and consulted 
of lawes & orders, both for their civill & military Govermente, as ye 
necessitie of their condition did require, still adding therunto as 
urgent occasion in severall times, and as cases did require. 

In these hard & difficulte beginings they found some discontents 
& murmurings arise amongst some, and mutinous speeches & carriags 
in other; but they were soone quelled, & overcome, by ye wisdome, 
patience, and just & equall carrage of things by ye Govr and better 
part wch clave faithfully togeather in ye maine. But that which was 
most sadd, & lamentable was, that in 2. or 3. moneths time halfe of 
their company dyed, espetialy in Jan: & February, being ye depth 
of winter, and wanting houses & other comforts ; being infected with 
ye scurvie & other diseases, which this long vioage & their inacomo- 
date condition had brought upon them; so as ther dyed some times 
2. or 3. of a day, in ye foresaid time; that of 100. & odd persons 
scarce 50. remained. And of these in ye time of most distres ther 
was but 6. or 7. sound persons; who, to their great comendations be it 
spoken, spared no pains, night nor day, but with abundance of toyle 
and hazard of their owne health, fetched them woode, made them fires, 
drest them meat, made their beads, washed their lothsome cloaths, 
cloathed & uncloathed them; in a word did all ye homly & necessarie 
offices for them, wch dainty & quesie stomacks cannot endure to 
hear named ; and all this willingly & cherfully , without any grudging 
in ye least, shewing herein their true love unto their freinds & 
bretheren. A rare example & worthy to be remembred. Tow of 
these 7. were Mr. William Brewster ther reverend Elder, & Myles 
Standish ther Captein & military comander, unto whom my selfe, & 
many others were much beholden in our low & sicke condition. And 
yet the Lord so upheld these persons, as in this generall calamity 



WILLIAM BRADFORD 13 

they were not at all infected either with sicknes, or lamnes. And 
what I have said of these, I may say of many others who dyed in this 
generall vissitation, & others yet living, that whilst they had health, 
yea, or any strength continuing, they were not wanting to any that 
had need of them. And I doute not but their recompence is with ye 

Lord 

All this while ye Indians came skulking about them, and would 
sometimes show them selves aloofe of, but when any aproached near 
them, they would rune away. And once they stoale away their 
tools wher they had been at worke, & were gone to diner. But 
about ye 16. of March a certaine Indian came bouldly amongst them, 
and spoke to them in broken English, which they could well under- 
stand, but marvelled at it. At length they understood by discourse 
with him, that he was not of these parts, but belonged to ye eastrene 
parts wher some English-ships came to fhish, with whom he was 
aquainted, & could name sundrie of them by their names, amongst 
whom he had gott his language. He became proftable to them in 
aquainting them with many things concerning ye state of ye cuntry 
in ye east-parts wher he lived, which was afterwards profitable unto 
them; as also of ye people hear, of their names, number & strength; 
of their situation & distance from this place, and who was cheefe 
amongst them. His name was Samaset; he tould them also of another 
Indian whos name was Squanto, a native of this place, who had been 
in England & could speake better English then him selfe. Being, 
after some time of entertainmente & gifts dismist, a while after he 
came againe, & 5. more with him, & they brought againe all.ye tooles 
that were stolen away before, and made way for ye coming of their 
great Sachem, called Massasoyt; who, about 4. or 5. days after, came 
with the cheefe of his freinds & other attendance, with the aforesaid 
Squanto. With whom, after frendly entertainment, & some gifts 
given him, they made a peace with him (which hath now continued 
this 24. years) in these terms. 

1 . That neither he nor any of his, should injurie or doe hurte to 
any of their peopl. 

2. That if any of his did any hurte to any of theirs, he should send 
ye offender, that they might punish him. 

3. That if any thing were taken away from any of theirs, he 
should cause it to be restored; and they should doe ye like to his. 



14 AMERICAN PROSE 



4. If any did unjustly warr against him, they would aide him; 
if any did warr against them, he should aide them. 

5. He should send to his neighbours confederats, to certifie 
them of this, that they might not wrong them, but might be likewise 
comprised in ye conditions of peace. 

6. That when ther men came to them, they should leave their 
bows & arrows behind them. 

After these things he returned to his place caled Sowams, some 
40. mile from this place, but Squanto continued with them, and was 
their interpreter, and was a spetiall instrument sent of God for their 
good beyond their expectation. He directed them how to set their 
corne, wher to take fish, and to procure other comodities, and was 
also their pilott to bring them to unknowne places for their profitt, 
and never left them till he dyed. 

UNGODLY DOINGS AT MERRY MOUNT 

Aboute some 3. or 4. years before this time, ther came over one 
Captaine Wolastone, (a man of pretie parts,) and with him 3. or 4. 
more of some eminencie, who brought with them a great many 
servants, with provissions & other implments for to begine a planta- 
tion; and pitched them selves in a place within the Massachusets, 
which they called, after their Captains name, Mount-Wollaston. 
Amongst whom was one Mr. Morton, who, it should seeme, had some 
small adventure (of his owne or other mens) amongst them; but 
had litle respecte amongst them, and was sleghted by ye meanest 
servants. Haveing continued ther some time, and not finding things 
to answer their expectations, nor profite to arise as they looked for, 
Captaine Wollaston takes a great part of ye sarvants, and transports 
them to Virginia, wher he puts them of at good rates, selling their 
time to other men; and writs back to one Mr. Rassdall, one of his 
cheefe partners, and accounted their mar chant, to bring another parte 
of them to Verginia likewise, intending to put them of ther as he had 
done ye rest. And he, wth ye consente of ye said Rasdall, appoynted 
one Fitcher to be his Livetenante, and governe ye remaines of ye 
plantation, till he or Rasdall returned to take further order ther- 
aboute. But this Morton abovesaid, haveing more craft then 
honestie, (who had been a kind of petiefogger, of Furnefells Inne,) 
in ye others absence, watches an oppertunitie, (commons being 



WILLIAM BRADFORD 15 

but hard amongst them,) and gott some strong drinck & other 
junkats, & made them a feast; and after they were merie, he begane 
to tell them, he would give them good counsell. You see (saith he) 
that many of your fellows are carried to Virginia; and if you stay till 
this Rasdall returne, you will also be carried away and sould for 
slaves with ye rest. Therfore I would advise you to thruste out this 
Levetenant Fitcher; and I, having a parte in the plantation, will 
receive you as my partners and consociats ; so may you be free from 
service, and we will converse, trad, plante, & live togeather as equalls, 
& supporte & protecte one another, or to like effecte. This counsell 
was easily received; so they tooke oppertunitie, and thrust Leveten- 
ante Fitcher out a dores, and would suffer him to come no more 
amongst them, but forct him to seeke bread to eate, and other releefe 
from his neigbours, till he could gett passages for England. After 
this they fell to great licenciousnes, and led a dissolute life, powering 
out them selves into all profanenes. And Morton became lord of 
misrule, and maintained (as it were) a schoole of Athisme. And after 
they had gott some good into their hands, and gott much by trading 
with ye Indeans, they spent it as vainly, in quaffing & drinking both 
wine & strong waters in great exsess, and, as some reported io£. worth 
in a morning. They allso set up a May-pole, drinking and dancing 
aboute it many days togeather, inviting the Indean women, for 
their consorts, dancing and frisking togither, (like so many fairies, or 
furies rather,) and worse practises. As if they had anew revived & 
celebrated the feasts of ye Roman Goddes Flora, oryebeasly practieses 
of ye madd Bacchinalians. Morton likwise (to shew his poetrie) com- 
posed sundry rimes & verses, some tending to lasciviousnes, and 
others to ye detraction & scandall of some persons, which he affixed 
to this idle or idoll May-polle. They chainged allso the name of 
their place, and in stead of calling it Mounte Wollaston, they call it 
Merie-mounte, as if this joylity would have lasted ever. But this 
continued not long, for after Morton was sent for England, (as 
follows to be declared,) shortly after came over that worthy gentlman, 
Mr. John Indecott, who brought over a patent under ye broad seall, 
for ye govermente of ye Massachusets, who visiting those parts 
caused yt May-polle to be cutt downe, and rebuked them for their 
profannes, and admonished them to looke ther should be better 
walking; so they now, or others, changed ye name of their place 
againe, and called it Mounte-Dagon. 



16 AMERICAN PROSE 



THOMAS MORTON 

FROM 

NEW ENGLISH CANAAN 

The Inhabitants of Pasonagessit (having translated the name of 
their habitation from that ancient Salvage name to Ma-re Mount; and 
being resolved to have the new name confirmed for a memorial to 
after ages) did devise amongst themselves to have it performed in a 
solemne manner with Revels, & merriment after the old English 
custome: prepared to sett up a Maypole upon the festivall day of 
Philip and Jacob ; & therefore brewed a barrell of excellent beare, & 
provided a case of bottles to be spent, with other good cheare, for 
all commers of that day. And because they would have it in a com- 
pleat forme, they had prepared a song fitting to the time and present 
occasion. And upon May-day they brought the Maypole to the place 
appointed, with drumes, gunnes, pistols, and other fitting instruments, 
for that purpose; and there erected it with the help of Salvages, that 
came thether of purpose to see the manner of our Revels. A goodly 
pine tree of 80. foote longe, was reared up, with a peare of bucks- 
horns nayled one, somewhat neare unto the top of it: where it stood 
as a faire sea marke for directions; how to finde out the way to 
mine Hoste of Ma-re Mount 

The setting up of this Maypole was a lamentable spectacle to the 
precise seperatists: that lived at new Plimmouth. They termed it 
anldoll; yea they called it the Calf e of Horeb : and stood at defiance 
with the place, naming it Mount Dagon; threatning to make it a 
woefull mount and not a merry mount 

There was likewise a merry song made, which (to make their 
Revells more fashionable) was sung with a Corus, every man bearing 
his part; which they performed in a daunce, hand in hand about the 
Maypole, whiles one of the Company sung, and filled out the good 
liquor like gammedes and Jupiter. 

THE SONGE 
Cor. Drinke and be merry, merry, merry boyes, 
Let all your delight be in Hymens joy es, 
Id to Hymen now the day is come, 
About the merry Maypole take a Roome. 



JOHN WINTHROP 17 



Make greene garlons, bring bottles out; 
And fill sweet Nectar, freely about, 
Uncover thy head, and fear e no harme, 
For hers good liqiior to keepe it warme. 
Then drinke and be merry, b°c. 
Id to Hymen, &°c. 

Nectar is a thing assign'd, 
By the Deities owne minde, 
To cure the hart opprest with 'greife, 
And of good liquors is the cheife, 
Then drinke, &°c. 
Id to Hymen, &°c. 

Give to the Mellancolly man, 
A cup or two of 't now and than; 
This physick' will soone revive his bloud, 
And make him be of a merrier moode. 
Then drinke &°c. 
Id to Hymen &c. 

Give to the Nymphe thats free from scorne, 
No Irish stuff nor Scotch overworne, 
Lasses in beaver coats come away, 
Yee shall be welcome to us night and day. 
To drinke and be merry b°c. 
16 to Hymen, &°c. 
This harmeles mirth made by younge men (that lived in hope to 
have wifes brought over to them, that would save them a laboure 
to make a voyage to fetch any over) was much distasted, of the precise 
Seperatists: that keepe much a doe, about the tyth of Muit and 
Cummin; troubling their braines more then reason would require 
about things that are indifferent : and from that time sought occasion 
against my honest Host of Ma-re Mount to overthrow his onder- 
takings, and to destroy his plantation quite and cleane. 

JOHN WINTHROP 

A PURITAN TO HIS WIFE 

Charleton in New England, July 16, 1630. 
My Dear Wife, 

Blessed be the Lord, our good God and merciful Father, that yet 
hath preserved me in life and health to salute thee, and to comfort 



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thy long longing heart with the joyful news of my welfare, and the 
welfare of thy beloved children. 

We had a long and troublesome passage, but the Lord made it 
safe and easy to us; and though we have met with many and great 
troubles, (as this bearer can certify thee,) yet he hath pleased to 
uphold us, and to give us hope of a happy issue. 

I am so overpressed with business, as I have no time for these or 
other mine own private occasions. I only write now, that thou 
mayest know, that yet I live and am mindful of thee in all my affairs. 
The larger discourse of all things thou shalt receive from my brother 
Downing, which I must send by some of the last ships. We have met 
with many sad and discomfortable things, as thou shalt hear after; 
and the Lord's hand hath been heavy upon myself in some very near 
to me. My son Henry! my son Henry! ah, poor child! Yet it 
grieves me much more for my dear daughter. The Lord strengthen 
and comfort her heart, to bear this cross patiently. I know thou 
wilt not be wanting to her in this distress. Yet, for all these things, 
(I praise my God,) I am not discouraged; nor do I see cause to repent 
or despair of those good days here, which will make amends for all. 

I shall expect thee next summer, (if the Lord please,) and by that 
time I hope to be provided for thy comfortable entertainment. My 
most sweet wife, be not disheartened; trust in the Lord, and thou 
shalt see his faithfulness. Commend me heartily to all our kind 
friends at Castleins, Groton Hall, Mr. Leigh and his wife, my neigh- 
bour Cole, and all the rest of my neighbours and their wives, both 
rich and poor. Remember me to them at Assington Hall, and Coden- 
ham Hall, Mr. Brand, Mr. Alston, Mr. Mott, and their wives, good- 
man Pond, Charles Neale, &c. The good Lord be with thee and 
bless thee and all our children and servants. Commend my love 
to them all. I kiss and embrace thee, my dear wife, and all my 
children, and leave thee in his arms, who is able to preserve you all, 
and to fulfil our joy in our happy meeting in his good time. Amen. 

Thy faithful husband, 

Jo. Winthrop. 

I shall write to my son John by London. 

To my very loving Wife, Mrs. Winthrop, the 

elder, at Groton in Suffolk, near Sudbury. 

From New England. 



JOHN WINTHROP IQ 



V' 



FROM 

THE HISTORY OF NEW ENGLAND 



A THEOLOGICAL COMMONWEALTH 

[a.d. 1636.] Upon these publick occasions, other opinions brake 
out publickly in the church of Boston, — as that the Holy Ghost 
dwelt in a believer as he is in heaven; that a man is justified before 
he believes; and that faith is no cause of justification. And others 
spread more secretly, — as that the letter of the scripture holds forth 
nothing but a covenant of works; and that the covenant of grace was 
the spirit of the scripture, which was known only to believers; and 
that this covenant of works was given by Moses in the ten command- 
ments; that there was a seed (viz. Abraham's carnal seed) went along 
in this, and there was a spirit and life in it, by virtue whereof a man 
might attain to any sanctification in gifts and graces, and might have 
spiritual and continual communion with Jesus Christ, and yet be 
damned. After, it was granted, that faith was before justification, 
but it was only passive, an empty vessel, &c; but in conclusion, 
the ground of all was found to be assurance by immediate revela- 
tion 

The differences in the said points of religion increased more and 
more, and the ministers of both sides (there being only Mr. Cotton 
of one party) did publickly declare their judgments in some of them, 
so as all men's mouths were full of them. And there being, 12 mo. 
3, a ship ready to go for England, and many passengers in it, Mr. 
Cotton took occasion to speak to them about the differences, &c. and 
willed them to tell our countrymen, that all the strife amongst us 
was about magnifying the grace of God; one party seeking to advance 
the grace of God within us, and the other to advance the grace of 
God towards us (meaning by the one justification, and by the other 
sanctification;) and so bade them tell them, that, if there were any 
among them that would strive for grace, they should come hither; 
and so declared some particulars. Mr. Wilson spake after him, and 
declared, that he knew none of the elders or brethren of the churches, 
but did labour to advance the free grace of God in justification, so far 
as the word of God required; and spake also about the doctrine of 
sanctification, and the use and necessity, &c. of it; by occasion 
whereof no man could tell (except some few, who knew the bottom of 



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the matter) where any difference was: which speech, though it 
offended those of Mr. Cotton's party, yet it was very seasonable to 
clear the rest, who otherwise should have been reputed to have 
opposed free grace. Thus every occasion increased the contention, 
and caused great alienation of minds; and the members of Boston 
(frequenting the lectures of other ministers) did make much dis- 
turbance by publick questions, and objections to their doctrines, 
which did any way disagree from their opinions; and it began to be 
as common here to distinguish between men, by being under a cove- 
nant of grace or a covenant of works, as in other countries between 
Protestants and Papists. 

A COLONIAL SCHOOLMASTER 

[a.d. 1639.] At the general court at Boston, one Mr. Nathaniel 
Eaton, brother to the merchant at Quilipiack, was convented and 
censured. The occasion was this: He was a schoolmaster, and had 
many scholars, the sons of gentlemen and others of best note in the 
country, and had entertained one Nathaniel Briscoe, a gentleman 
born, to be his usher, and to do some other things for him, which 
might not be unfit for a scholar. He had not been with him above 
three days but he fell out with him for a very small occasion, and, 
with reproachful terms, discharged him, and turned him out of his 
doors; but, it being then about eight of the clock after the Sabbath, 
he told him he should stay till next morning, and, some words growing 
between them, he struck him and pulled him into his house. Briscoe 
defended himself, and closed with him, and, being parted, he came in 
and went up to his chamber to lodge there. Mr. Eaton sent for the 
constable, who advised him first to admonish him, &c. and if he could 
not, by the power of a master, reform him, then he should complain 
to the magistrate. But he caused his man to fetch him a cudgel, 
which was a walnut tree plant, big enough to have killed a horse, and 
a yard in length, and, taking his two men with him, he went up to 
Briscoe, and caused his men to hold him till he had given him two 
hundred stripes about the head and shoulders, &c. and so kept him 
under blows (with some two or three short intermissions) about the 
space of two hours, about which time Mr. Shepherd and some others 
of the town came in at the outcry, and so he gave over. In this 
distress, Briscoe gate out his knife, and struck at the man that held 



JOHN WINTHROP 21 



him, but hurt him not. He also fell to prayer, (supposing he should 
have been murdered,) and then Mr. Eaton beat him for taking the 
name of God in vain. After this Mr. Eaton and Mr. Shepherd (who 
knew not then of these passages) came to the governour and some 
other of the magistrates, complaining of Briscoe for his insolent 
speeches, and for crying out murder and drawing his knife, and 
desired that he might be enjoined to a publick acknowledgment, &c. 
The magistrates answered, that they must first hear him speak, and 
then they would do as they should see cause. Mr. Eaton was dis- 
pleased at this, and went away discontented, &c. and, being after 
called into the court to make answer to the information, which had 
been given by some who knew the truth of the case, and also to answer 
for his neglect and cruelty, and other ill usage towards his scholars, 
one of the elders (not suspecting such miscarriages by him) came to 
the governour, and showed himself much grieved, that he should be 
publickly produced, alleging, that it would derogate from his authority 
and reverence among his scholars, &c. But the cause went on not- 
withstanding, and he was called, and these things laid to his charge 
in the open court. His answers were full of pride and disdain, telling 
the magistrates, that they should not need to do any thing herein, for 
he was intended to leave his employment. And being asked, why 
he used such cruelty to Briscoe his usher, and to other his scholars, 
(for it was testified by another of his ushers and divers of his scholars, 
that he would give them between twenty and thirty stripes at a time, 
and would not leave till they had confessed what he required,) his 
answer was, that he had this rule, that he would not give over cor- 
recting till he had subdued the party to his will. Being also ques- 
tioned about the ill and scant diet of his boarders, (for, though their 
friends gave large allowance, yet their diet was ordinarily nothing but 
porridge and pudding, and that very homely,) he put it off to his 
wife. So the court dismissed him at present, and commanded him 
to attend again the next day, when, being called, he was commanded 
to the lower end of the table, (where all offenders do usually stand,) 
and, being openly convict of all the former offences, by the oaths of 
four or five witnesses, he yet continued to justify himself; so, it 
being near night, he was committed to the marshal till the next day. 
When the court was set in the morning, many of the elders came into 
the court, (it being then private for matter of consultation,) and 



22 AMERICAN PROSE 



declared how, the evening before, they had taken pains with him, 
to convince him of his faults; yet, for divers hours, he had still stood 
to his justification; but, in the end, he was convinced, and had freely 
and fully acknowledged his sin, and that with tears; so as they did 
hope he had truly repented, and therefore desired of the court, that 
he might be pardoned, and continued in his employment, alleging 
such further reasons as they thought fit. After the elders were 
departed, the court consulted about it, and sent for him, and there, 
in the open court, before a great assembly, he made a very solid, wise, 
eloquent and serious (seeming) confession, condeming himself in all 
the particulars, &c. Whereupon, being put aside, the court consulted 
privately about his sentence, and, though many were taken with his 
confession, and none but had a charitable opinion of it; yet, because 
of the scandal of religion, and offence which would be given to such 
as might intend to send their children hither, they all agreed to cen- 
sure him, and put him from that employment. So, being called in, 
the governour, after a short preface, &c. declared the sentence of the 
court to this effect, viz. that he should give Briscoe £30, fined 100 
marks, and debarred teaching of children within our jurisdiction. 
A pause being made, and expectation that (according to his former 
confession) he would have given glory to God, and acknowledged 
the justice and clemency of the court, the governour giving him 
occasion, by asking him if he had ought to say, he turned away with 
a discontented look, saying, "If sentence be passed, then it is to no 
end to speak." Yet the court remitted his fine to £20, and willed 
Briscoe to take but £20. 

The church at Cambridge, taking notice of these proceedings, 
intended to deal with him. The pastor moved the governour, if they 
might, without offence to the court, examine other witnesses. His 
answer was, that the court would leave them to their own liberty; 
but he saw not to what end they should do it, seeing there had been 
five already upon oath, and those whom they should examine should 
speak without oath, and it was an ordinance of God, that by the 
mouths of two or three witnesses every matter should be established. 
But he soon discovered himself; for, ere the church could come to 
deal with him, he fled to Pascataquack, and, being pursued and 
apprehended by the governour there, he again acknowledged his 
great sin in flying, &c. and promised (as he was a Christian man) he 



JOHN WINTHROP 23 



would return with the messengers. But, because his things he carried 
with him were aboard a bark there, bound to Virginia, he desired 
leave to go fetch them, which they assented unto, and went with 
him (three of them) aboard with him. So he took his truss and came 
away with them in the boat; but, being come to the shore, and two 
of them going out of the boat, he caused the boatsmen to put off the 
boat, and, because the third man would not go out, he turned him 
into the water, where he had been drowned, if he had not saved him- 
self by swimming. So he returned to the bark, and presently they 
set sail and went out of the harbour. Being thus gone, his creditors 
began to complain; and thereupon it was found, that he was run in 
debt about £1000, and had taken up most of this money upon bills 
he had charged into England upon his brother's agents, and others 
whom he had no such relation to. So his estate was seized, and put 
into commissioners' hands, to be divided among his creditors, allow- 
ing somewhat for the present maintenance of his wife and children. 
And, being thus gone, the church proceeded and cast him out. He 
had been sometimes initiated among the Jesuits, and, coming into 
England, his friends drew him from them, but, it was very probable, 
he now intended to return to them again, being at this time about 
thirty years of age, and upwards. 

ANTI-EPISCOPAL MICE 

[a.d. 1640.] About this time there fell out a thing worthy of 
observation. Mr. Winthrop the younger, one of the magistrates, 
having many books in a chamber where there was corn of divers sorts, 
had among them one wherein the Greek testament, the psalms and 
the common prayer were bound together. He found the common 
prayer eaten with mice, every leaf of it, and not any of the two other 
touched, nor any other of his books, though there were above a 
thousand. 

DIVINE DISCIPLINE 

[a.d. 1641.] A godly woman of the church of Boston, dwelling 
sometimes in London, brought with her a parcel of very fine linen 
of great value, which she set her heart too much upon, and had been 
at charge to have it all newly washed and curiously folded and 
pressed, and so left it in press in her parlour over night. She had 
a negro maid went into the room very late and let fall some snuff 



24 AMERICAN PROSE 



of the candle upon the linen, so as by the morning all the linen was 
burned to tinder, and the boards underneath, and some stools and 
a part of the wainscot burned, and never perceived by any in the 
house, though some lodged in the chamber over head, and no ceiling 
between. But it pleased God that the loss of this linen did her much 
good, both in taking off her heart from worldly comforts, and in pre- 
paring her for a far greater affliction by the untimely death of her 
husband who was slain not long after at Isle of Providence. 

HERESY PUNISHED 

[a.d. 1643.] Gorton maintained, that the image of God wherein 
Adam was created was Christ, and so the loss of that image was the 
death of Christ, and the restoring of it in regeneration was Christ's 
resurrection, and so the death of him that was born of the Virgin 
Mary was but a manifestation of the former. In their letters, &c. 
they condemned all ordinances in the church, calling baptism an 
abomination, and the Lord's supper the juice of a poor silly grape 
turned into the blood of Christ by the skill of our magicians, &c. 
Yet upon examination they would say they did allow them to be the 
ordinances of Christ; but their meaning was that they were to con- 
tinue no longer than the infancy of the church lasted, (and but ,to 
novices then,) for after the revelation was written they were to cease, 
for there is no mention of them, say they, in that book 

The court and the elders spent near a whole day in discovery 
of Gorton's deep mysteries which he had boasted of in his letters, and 
to bring him to conviction, but all was in vain. Much pains was 
also taken with the rest, but to as little effect. They would acknowl- 
edge no errour or fault in their writings, and yet would seem sometimes 
to consent with us in the truth. .... 

After divers means had been used both in public and private to 
reclaim them, and all proving fruitless, the court proceeded to con- 
sider of their sentence, in which the court was much divided. All 
the magistrates, save three, were of opinion that Gorton ought to die, 
but the greatest number of the deputies dissenting, that vote did not 
pass. In the end all agreed upon this sentence, for seven of them, 
viz. that they should be dispersed into seven several towns, and there 
kept to work for their living, and wear irons upon one leg, and not 
to depart the limits of the town, nor by word or writing maintain any 



JOHN W1NTHR0P 25 



of their blasphemous or wicked errours upon pain of death, only with 
exception for speech with any of the elders, or any other licensed by 
any magistrate to confer with them ; this censure to continue during 

the pleasure of the court 

At the next court they were all sent away, because we found 
that they did corrupt some of our people, especially the women, by 
their heresies. 

PRETERNATURAL PHENOMENA 

[a.d. 1643.] The 18th of this month two lights were seen near 
Boston, (as is before mentioned,) and a week after the like was seen 
again. A light like the moon arose about the N.E. point in Boston, 
and met the former at Nottles Island, and there they closed in one, 
and then parted, and closed and parted divers times, and so went 
over the hill in the island and vanished. Sometimes they shot out 
flames and sometimes sparkles. This was about eight of the clock 
in the evening, and was seen by many. About the same time a voice 
was heard upon the water between Boston and Dorchester, calling 
out in a most dreadful manner, boy, boy, come away, come away: and 
it suddenly shifted from one place to another a great distance, about 
twenty times. It was heard by divers godly persons. About 14 
days after, the same voice in the same dreadful manner was heard 
by others on the other side of the town toward Nottles Island. 

These prodigies having some reference to the place where Cap- 
tain Chaddock's pinnace was blown up a little before, gave occasion 
of speech of that man who was the cause of it, who professed himself 
to have skill in necromancy, and to have done some strange things in 
his way from Virginia hither, and was suspected to have murdered 
his master there; but the magistrates here had no notice of him till 
after he was blown up. This is to be observed that his fellows were 
all found, and others who were blown up in the former ship were also 
found, and others also who have miscarried by drowning, &c. have 
usually been found, but this man was never found. 

a puritan blue-stocking 
[a.d. 1645.] Mr. Hopkins, the governour of Hartford upon 
Connecticut, came to Boston, and brought his wife with him (a godly 
young woman, and of special parts), who was fallen into a sad infirm- 
ity, the loss of her understanding and reason, which had been growing 



2 6 AMERICAN PROSE 



upon her divers years, by occasion of her giving herself wholly to 
reading and writing, and had written many books. Her husband, 
being very loving and tender of her, was loath to grieve her; but he 
saw his errour, when it was too late. For if she had attended her 
household affairs, and such things as belong to women, and not gone 
out of her way and calling to meddle in such things as are proper for 
men, whose minds are stronger &c. she had kept her wits, and might 
have improved them usefully and honourably in the place God had 
set her. He brought her to Boston, and left her with her brother, 
one Mr. Yale, a merchant, to try what means might be had here for 
her. But no help could be had. 

WITCHCRAFT 

[a.d. 1648.] At this court one Margaret Jones of Charlestown 
was indicted and found guilty of witchcraft, and hanged for it. The 
evidence against her was, 1. that she was found to have such a malig- 
nant touch, as many persons (men, women and children,) whom 
she stroked or touched with any affection or displeasure or &c. were 
taken with deafness, or vomiting, or other violent pains or sickness, 
2. she practising physick, and her medicines being such things as 
(by her own confession) were harmless, as aniseed, liquors &c. yet had 
extraordinary violent effects, 3. she would use to tell such as would not 
make use of her physick, that they would never be healed, and accord- 
ingly their diseases and hurts continued, with relapses against the 
ordinary course, and beyond the apprehension of all physicians and 
surgeons, 4. some things which she foretold came to pass accordingly; 
other things she could tell of (as secret speeches &c.) which she had 
no ordinary means to come to the knowledge of, .... 6. in the 
prison, in the clear day-light, there was seen in her arms, .... a little 
child, which ran from her into another room, and the officer following 
it, it was vanished. The like child was seen in two other places, to 
which she had relation; and one maid that saw it, fell sick upon it, 
and was cured by the said Margaret, who used means to be employed 
to that end. Her behaviour at her trial was very intemperate, lying 
notoriously, and railing upon the jury and witnesses &c. and in the 
like distemper she died. The same day and hour she was executed, 
there was a very great tempest at Connecticut, which blew down 
many trees &c 



JOHN WINTHROP 27 



The Welcome, of Boston, about 300 tons, riding before Charles- 
town, having in her eighty horses and 120 tons of ballast, in calm 
weather, fell a rolling, and continued so about twelve hours, so as 
though they brought a great weight to the one side, yet she would 
heel to the other, and so deep as they feared her foundering. It was 
then the time of the county court at Boston, and the magistrates 
hearing of it, and withal that one Jones (the husband of the witch 
lately executed) had desired to have passage in her to Barbados, and 
could not have it without such payment &c. they sent the officer 
presently with a warrant to apprehend him, one of them saying that 
the ship would stand still as soon as he was in prison. And as the 
officer went, and was passing over the ferry, one said to him, you can 
tame men sometimes, can't you tame this ship. The officer answered, 
I have that here that ( it may be) will tame her, and make her be quiet ; 
and with that showed his warrant. And at the same instant, she 
began to stop and presently staid, and after he was put in prison, 
moved no more. 

There appeared over the harbour at New Haven, in the evening, 
the form of the keel of a ship with three masts, to which were suddenly 
added all the tackling and sails, and presently after, upon the top of 
the poop, a man standing with one hand akimbo under his left side, 
and in his right hand a sword stretched out towards the sea. Then 
from the side of the ship which was from the town arose a great 
smoke, which covered all the ship, and in that smoke she vanished 
away; but some saw her keel sink into the water. This was seen by 
many, men and women, and it continued about a quarter of an hour. 

THE SNAKE IN THE SYNOD 

[a.d. 1648.] The synod met at Cambridge by adjournment. 
. . . . Mr. Allen of Dedham preached out of Acts 15, a very godly, 
learned, and particular handling of near all the doctrines and appli- 
cations concerning that subject, with a clear discovery and refutation 
of such errours, objections and scruples as had been raised about it 
by some young heads in the country. 

It fell out, about the midst of his sermon, there came a snake into 
the seat, where many of the elders sate behind the preacher. It came 
in at the door where people stood thick upon the stairs. Divers of 
the elders shifted from it, but Mr. Thomson, one of the elders of 



28 AMERICAN PROSE 



Braintree, (a man of much faith,) trode upon the head of it, and so 
held it with his foot and staff with a small pair of grains, until it was 
killed. This being so remarkable, and nothing falling out but by 
divine providence, it is out of doubt, the Lord discovered some- 
what of his mind in it. The serpent is the devil; the synod, the 
representative of the churches of Christ in New England. The devil 
had formerly and lately attempted their disturbance and dissolution; 
but their faith in the seed of the woman overcame him and crushed 
his head. 

THE SPECIAL HAND OE GOD 

[a.d. 1648.] About eight persons were drowned this winter, all 
by adventuring upon the ice, except three, whereof two (one of them 
being far in drink) would needs pass from Boston to Winisemett in 
a small boat and a tempestuous night. This man (using to come 
home to Winisemett drunken) his wife would tell him, he would one 
day be drowned &c. but he made light of it. Another went aboard 
a ship to make merry the last day at night, (being the beginning of 
the Lord's day,) and returning about midnight with three of the 
ship's company, the boat was overset by means of the ice, they guiding 
her by a rope, which went from the ship to the shore. The seamen 
waded out, but the Boston man was drowned, being a man of good 
conversation and hopeful of some work of grace begun in him, but 
drawn away by the seamen's invitation. God will be sanctified in 
them that come near him. Two others were the children of one of the 
church of Boston. While the parents were at the lecture, the boy 
(being about seven years of age,) having a small staff in his hand, ran 
down upon the ice towards a boat he saw, and the ice breaking, he 
fell in, but his staff kept him up, till his sister, about fourteen years 
old, ran down to save her brother (though there were four men at 
hand, and called to her not to go, being themselves hasting to save 
him) and so drowned herself and him also, being past recovery ere 
the men could come at them, and could easily reach ground with 
their feet. The parents had no more sons, and confessed they had 
been too indulgent towards him, and had set their hearts over much 
upon him. 

This puts me in mind of another child very strangely drowned 
a little before winter. The parents were also members of the church 
of Boston. The father had undertaken to maintain the mill-dam, 



THOMAS SHEPARD 29 



and being at work upon it, (with some help he had hired,) in the 
afternoon of the last day of the week, night came upon them before 
they had finished what they intended, and his conscience began to 
put him in mind of the Lord's day, and he was troubled, yet went on 
and wrought an hour within night. The next day, after evening 
exercise, and after they had supped, the mother put two children to 
bed in the room where themselves did lie, and they went out to visit 
a neighbour. When they returned, they continued about an hour in 
the room, and missed not the child, but then the mother going to the 
bed, and not finding her youngest child, (a daughter about five years 
of age,) after much search she found it drowned in a well in her cellar; 
which was very observable, as by a special hand of God, that the 
child should go out of that room into another in the dark, and then 
fall down at a trap door, or go down the stairs, and so into the well 
in the farther end of the cellar, the top of the well and the water 
being even with the ground. , But the father, freely in the open 
congregation, did acknowledge it the righteous hand of God for his 
profaning his holy day against the checks of his own conscience. ^ 

J THOMAS SHEPARD 

PROM 

THE SINCERE CONVERT 

Doct. 2. That those that are saved, are saved with much difficulty: 
or it is a wonderfull hard thing to be saved. 

The gate is strait, and therefore a man must sweat and strive to 
enter; both the entrance is difficult, and the progresse of salvation too. 
Jesus Christ is not got with a wet finger. It is not wishing and desir- 
ing to be saved, will bring men to heaven; hells mouth is full of good 
wishes. It is not shedding a tear at a Sermon, or blubbering now and 
then in a corner, and saying over thy prayers, and crying God mercy 
for thy sins, will save thee. It is not Lord have mercy upon us, will 
doe thee good. It is not coming constantly to Church; these are 
easie matters. But it is a tough work, a wonderfull hard matter to 
be saved, 1 Pet. 4. 18. Hence the way to heaven is compared to a 
Race, where a man must put forth all his strength, and stretch every 
limb, and all to get forward. Hence a Christians life is compared to 
wrestling, Eph. 6.12. All the policy and power of hell buckle together 



30 AMERICAN PROSE 



against a Christian, therefore he must look to himself, or else he falls. 
Hence it is compared to fighting, 2 Tim. 4. 7. a man must fight against 
the Devill, the World, Himself; who shoot poysoned bullets in the 
soul, where a man must kill or be killed. God hath not lined the way 
to Christ with velvet, nor strewed it with rushes. He will never feed 
a slothfull humour in man, who will be saved if Christ and Heaven 
would drop into their mouthes, and if any would bear their charges 
thither: If Christ might be bought for a few cold wishes, and lazie 
desires, he would be of small reckoning amongst men, who would say, 
lightly come lightly gee. Indeed Christs yoke is easie in it self, and 
when a man is got into Christ, nothing is so sweet; but for a carnall 
dull heart, it is hard to draw in it; for, 

There are 4 strait gates wch every one must pass through before 
he can enter into heaven. 

1. There is the strait gate of Humiliation; God saveth none, but 
first he humbleth them; now it is hard to pass through the gates and 
flames of hell; for a heart as stiff e [as] a stake, to bow; as hard as a 
stone, to bleed for the least prick, not to mourne for one sin, but all 
sins; and not for a fit, but all a mans life time; Oh it is hard for a man 
to suffer himself to be loaden with sinne, and prest to death for sin, 
so as never to love sinne more, but to spit in the face of that which he 
once loved as dearly as his life. It is easie to drop a tear or two, and 
be Sermon-sick; but to have a heart rent for sinne, and from sinne, 
this is true humiliation, and this is hard. 

2. The strait gate of Faith, Eph. 1.10. It's an easie matter to 
presume, but hard to beleeve in Christ. It is easie for a man that 
was never humbled, to beleeve and say, 'Tis but beleeving: but it is an 
hard matter for a man humbled, when he sees all his sins in order 
before him, the Devill and Conscience roaring upon him, and crying 
out against him, and God frowning upon him, now to call God Father, 
is an hard work. Judas had rather be hang'd than believe. It is hard 
to see a Christ as a rock to stand upon, when we are overwhelmed 
with sorrow of heart for sinne. It is hard to prize Christ above ten 
thousand worlds of pearl: 'tis hard to desire Christ, and nothing but 
Christ; hard to follow Christ all the day long, and never to be quiet 
till he is got in thine armes, and then with Simeon to say, Lord now 
leltest thou thy servant depart in peace. 

3. The strait gate of Repentance. It is an easie matter for a man 
to confesse himself e to be a sinner, and to cry God forgivenesse untill 



THOMAS SHEPAKD 31 



next time: but to have a bitter sorrow and so to turn from all sin, and 
to return to God, and all the waies of God, which is true repentance 
indeed; this is hard. 

4. The strait gate of opposition of Devils, the World, and a mans 
own Self, who knock a man down when he begins to look towards 
Christ and heaven. 

Hence learn, that every easie way to heaven is a false way, 
although ministers should preach it out of their Pulpits, and Angels 
should publish it out of heaven. 

Now there are nine easie wayes to heaven, (as men think) all 
which lead to hell. 

1. The common broad way, wherein a whole parish may all goe 
a breadth in it; tell these people they shal be damned ; their answer 
is, then woe to many more besides me. 

2. The way of Civill education, whereby many wilde natures are 
by little and little tamed, and like wolves are chained up easily while 
they are young. 

3. Balams way of good wishes, whereby many people will con- 
fesse their ignorance, forgetfulnesse, and that they cannot make such 
shewes as others doe, but they thank God their hearts are as good, and 
God for his part accepts (say they) the will for the deed. And, My 
son give me thine heart; the heart is all in all, and so long they hope 
to doe well enough. Poor deluded creatures thus think to break 
through armies of sinnes, Devils, temptations, and to break open the 
very gates of Heaven with a few good wishes; they think to come to 
their journeys end without legs, because their hearts are'good to God. 

4. The way of Formality, whereby men rest in the performance of 
most or of all externall duties without inward life, Mark. 1 . 14. Every- 
man must have some Religion, some fig-leaves to hide their naked- 
nesse. Now this Religion must be either true Religion, or the false 
one; if the true, he must either take up the power of it, but that he 
will not, because it is burdensome; or the forme of it, and this being 
easie men embrace it as their God, and will rather lose their lives 
than their Religion thus taken up. This form of Religion is the 
easiest Religion in the world; partly, because it easeth men of trouble 
of conscience, quieting that: Thou hast sinned, saith conscience, 
and God is offended, take a book and pray, keep thy conscience 
better, and bring thy Bible with thee. Now conscience is silent, 
being charmed down with the form of Religion, as the Devill is driven 



32 AMERICAN PROSE 



away (as they say) with holy water; partly also because the form of 
religion credits a man, partly because it is easie in it selfe; it's of a 
light carriage, being but the shadow and picture of the substance 
of religion; as now, what an easie matter it is to come to Church? 
They hear (at least outwardly) very attentively and hour or more, and 
then to turn to a proof, and to turn down a leaf, here's the form. But 
now to spend Saturday night, and all the whole Sabbath day morning, 
in trimming the Lamp, and in getting oyle in the heart to meet the 
Bridegroom the next day, and so meet him in the Word, and there to 
tremble at the voice of God, and suck the brest while it is open, and 
when the word is done, to goe aside privately, and there to chew upon 
the word, there to lament with tears all the vain thoughts in duties, 
deadnesse in hearing, this is hard, because this is the power of godli- 
nesse, and this men will not take up: so for private prayer, what an 
easie matter it is for a man to say over a few prayers out of some 
devout book, or to repeat some old prayer got by heart since a childe, 
or to have two or three short winded wishes for Gods mercy in the 
morning and at night; this form is easie: but now to prepare the 
heart by serious meditation of God and mans self before he praies, 
then to come to God with a bleeding hunger-starved heart, not only 
with a desire, but with a warrant, I must have such or such a mercy, 
and there to wrestle with God, although it be an hour or two together 
for a blessing, this is too hard; men think none doe thus, and therefore 
they will not. 

Fifthly, the way of presumption, whereby men having seen their 
sins, catch hold easily upon Gods mercy, and snatch comforts, 
before they are reached out unto them. There is no word of com- 
fort in the book of God intended for such as regard iniquity 
in their hearts, though they doe not act it in their lives. Their only 
comfort is, that the sentence of damnation is not yet executed upon 
them. 

Sixthly, the way of sloth, whereby men lie still, and say God must 
doe all; If the Lord would set up a Pulpit at the Alehouse door, it 
may be they would hear oftner. If God will alwaies thunder, they 
will alwaye pray; if strike them now and then with sicknesse, God 
shall be paid with good words and promises enow, that they will be 
better if they live; but as long as peace lasts, they will run to Hell as 
fast as they can; and if God will not catch them, they care not, they 
will not return. 



ROGER WILLIAMS 33 



Seventhly, the way of carelesnesse when men feeling many 
difficulties, pass through some of them, but not all, and what they 
cannot get now, they feed themselves with a false hope they shall 
hereafter; they are content to be called Precisians, and fools, and 
crazie brains, but they want brokennesse of heart, and they will pray 
(it may be) for it, and passe by that difficulty; but to keep the wound 
alwaies open, this they will not doe, to be alwaies sighing for help, 
and never to give themselves rest till their hearts are humbled; 
that they will not ; these have a name to live, yet are dead. 

Eighthly, the way of moderation or honest discretion, Rev. 3 . 16. 
which indeed is nothing but lukewarmnesse of the soul, and that is, 
when a man contrives and cuts out such a way to Heaven, as he may 
be hated of none, but please all, and so do any thing for a quiet life, 
and so sleep in a whole skin. The Lord saith, He that will live godly, 
must suffer persecution: No, not so, Lord. Surely (think they) if 
men were discreet and wise, it would prevent a great deal of trouble 
and oposition in good courses; this man will commend those that are 
most zealous, if they were but wise; if he meet with a black-mouth 'd 
swearer, he will not reprove him, lest he be displeased with him; if he 
meet with an honest man, hee'l yeeld to all he saith, that so he may 
commend him; and when he meets them both together, they shall 
be both alike welcome, (what ever hee thinks) to his house and table, 
because he would fain be at peace with all men. 

Ninthly, and lastly, the way of Self-love, whereby a man fearing 
terribly he shall be damned, useth diligently all means whereby he 
shall be saved. Here is the strongest difficulty of all, to row against 
the stream, and to hate a mans self, and then to follow Christ fully. 

ROGER WILLIAMS 

FROM 

THE BLOUDY TENENT OF PERSECUTION FOR CAUSE 
OF CONSCIENCE 

FROM 
THE PREFACE 

First, That the blood of so many hundred thousand souls of 
Protestants and Papists, spilt in the Wars of present and former Ages, 
for their respective Consciences, is not required nor accepted by Jesus 
Christ the Prince of Peace. 



34 AMERICAN PROSE 



Secondly, Pregnant Scriptures and Arguments are throughout 
the Worke proposed against the Doctrine of Persecution for cause of 
Conscience. 

Thirdly, Satisfactorie Answers are given to Scriptures, and 
objections produced by Mr. Calvin, Beza, Mr. Cotton, and the Minis- 
ters of the New English Churches, and others former and later, 
tending to prove the Doctrine of Persecution for cause of Conscience. 

Fourthly, The Doctrine of Persecution for cause of Conscience, is 
proved guilty of all the blood of the Soules crying for vengeance under 
the Altar. 

Fifthly, All Civill Stales with their Officers of justice in their 
respective constitutions and administrations are proved essentially 
Civill, and therefore not Judges, Governours or Defendours of the 
Spirituall or Christian state and Worship. 

Sixtly, It is the will and command of God, that (since the comming 
of his Sonne the Lord Jesus) a permission of the most Paganish, Jewish, 
Turkish or Antichristian consciences and worships, bee granted to all 
men in all Nations and Countries: and they are onely to bee fought 
against with that Sword which is only (in Soule matters) able to conquer, 
to wit, the Sword of Gods Spirit, the Word of God. 

THE ANSWER OF MR. JOHN COTTON OF BOSTON IN NEW-ENGLAND, 
TO THE AFORESAID ARGUMENTS AGAINST PERSECUTION FOR CAUSE 

OF • CONSCIENCE 
PROFESSEDLY MAINTEINING PERSECUTION FOR CAUSE OF CONSCIENCE 

The Question which you put, is, Whether Persecution for cause 
of Conscience, be not against the Doctrine of Jesus Christ the King of 
Kings. 

Now by Persecution for Cause of Conscience, I conceive you meane, 
either for professing some point of Doctrine which you believe in 
Conscience to be the Truth, or for practising some Worke which in 
Conscience you believe to be a Religious Duty. 

Now in Points of Doctrine some are fundamental^ without right 
beliefe whereof a Man cannot be saved: Others are circumstantiall or 
lesse principall, wherein Men may differ in judgement, without 
prejudice of salvation on either part. 

In like sort, in Points of Practice, some concerne the waightier 
Duties of the Law, as, What God we worship, and with what kinde of 



ROGER WILLIAMS 35 



Worship; whether such, as if it be Right, fellowship with God is held; 
if Corrupt, fellowship with Him is lost. 

Againe, in Points of Doctrine and Worship lesse Principall: 
either they are held forth in a meeke and peaceable way, though the 
Things be Erroneous or unlawfull: Or they are held forth with such 
Arrogance and Impetuousnesse, as tendeth and reacheth (even of it 
selfe) to the disturbance of Civill Peace. 

Finally, let me adde this one distinction more: When we are 
persecuted for Conscience sake, It is either for Conscience rightly 
informed, or for erronious and blind Conscience. 

These things premised, I would lay down mine Answer to the 
Question in certaine Conclusions. 

First, it is not lawfull to persecute any for Conscience sake Rightly 
informed; for in persecuting such, Christ himselfe is persecuted in 
them, Acts 9.4. 

Secondly, for an Erronious and blind Conscience, (even in funda- 
mentall and weighty Points) It is not lawfull to persecute any, till 
after Admonition once or twice: and so the Apostle directeth, Tit. 
3 . 10. and giveth the Reason, that iafundamentall and principall points 
of Doctrine or Worship, the Word of God in such things is so cleare, 
that hee cannot but bee convinced in Conscience of the dangerous 
Errour of his way, after once or twice Admonition, wisely and faith-- 
fully dispensed. And then if any one persist, it is not out of Con- 
science, but against his Conscience, as the Apostle saith vers. n. 
He is subverted and sinneth, being condemned of Himselfe, that is, of 
his owne Conscience. So that if such a Man after such Admonition 
shall still persist in the Errour of his way, and be therefore punished; 
He is not persecuted for Cause of Conscience, but for sinning against 
his Owne Conscience. 

Thirdly, In things of lesser moment, whether Points of Doctrine 
or Worship, If a man hold them forth in a Spirit of Christian Meek- 
nesse and Love (though with Zeale and Constancie) he is not to be 
persecuted, but tolerated, till God may be pleased to manifest his 
Truth to him, Phil. 3. 17. Rom. 14. 1, 2, 3, 4. 

But if a Man hold forth or professe any Errour or false way, 
with a boysterous and arrogant spirit, to the disturbance of Civill 
peace, he may justly be punished according to the qualitie and 
measure of the disturbance caused by him. 



36 AMERICAN PROSE 



A REPLY TO THE AFORESAID ANSWER OF MR. COTTON 
IN A CONFERENCE BETWEENE TRUTH AND PEACE 

CHAP. I. 

Truth. In what darke corner of the World {sweet Peace) are we 
two met ? How hath this present evill World banished Me from all 
the Coasts & Quarters of it? and how hath the Righteous God in 
judgement taken Thee from the Earth, Rev. 6.4. 

Peace. 'Tis lamentably true (blessed Truth) the foundations of 
the World have long been out of course: the Gates of Earth and Hell 
have conspired together to intercept our joyfull meeting and our holy 
kisses; With what a wearied, tyred Wing have I flowne over Nations, 
Kingdomes, Cities, Townes, to finde out precious Truth ? 

Truth. The like enquiries in my nights and travells have I 
made for Peace, and still am told, she hath left the Earth, and fled to 
Heaven. 

Peace. Deare Truth, What is the Earth but a dungeon of dark- 
nesse, where Truth is not ? 

Truth. And what 's the Peace thereof but a fleeting dreame, 
thine Ape and Counterfeit? 

Peace. O where 's the Promise of the God of Heaven, that Right- 
eousnes and Peace shall kisse each other ? 

Truth. Patience (sweet Peace) these Heavens and Earth are 
growing O/J, and shall be changed like a Garment, Psal. 102. They 
shall melt away, and be burnt up with all the Works that are therein; 
and the most high Eternall Creatour, shall gloriously create New 
Heavens and New Earth, wherein dwells Righetousnesse, 2 Pet. 3. 
Our kisses then shall have their endlesse date of pure and sweetest 
joyes ? till then both Thou and / must hope, and wait, and beare the 
furie of the Dragons wrath, whose monstrous Lies and Furies shall 
with himselfe be cast into the lake of Fire, the second death, Revel. 20. 
Peace. Most precious Truth, thou knowest we are both pursued 
and laid for: Mine heart is full of sighes, mine eyes with teares: Where 
can I better vent my full oppressed bosome, then into thine, whose 
faithfull lips may for these few houres revive my drooping wandring 
spirits, and here begin to wipe Teares from mine eyes, and the eyes 
of my dearest Children? 

Truth. Sweet daughter of the God of Peace, begin; powre out 
thy sorrowes, vent thy complaints: how joyfull am I to improve 



ROGER WILLIAMS 37 



these precious Minutes to revive our Hearts, both thine and mine, and 
the hearts of all that love the Truth and Peace, Zach. 8. 

Peace. Deare Truth, I know thy birth, thy nature, thy delight. 
They that know thee, will prize thee farre above themselves and lives, 
and sell themselves to buy thee. Well spake that famous Elizabeth to 
her famous Attorney Sir Edward Coke: Mr. Attourney, goe on as thou 
hast begun, and still plead, not pro Domina Regina, but pro Domina 
Veritate. 

Truth. 'Tis true, my Crowne is high, my Scepter 's strong to 
breake down strongest holds, to throw down highest Crownes of all 
that plead (though but in thought) against me. Some few there are, 
but oh how few are valiant for the Truth, and dare to plead my Cause, 
as my Witnesses in sack-cloth, Revel. 11. While all mens Tongues are 
bent like Bowes to shoot out lying words against Me! 

Peace. O how could I spend eternall dayes and endlesse dates at 
thy holy feet, in listning to the precious Oracles of thy mouth! All 
the Words of thy mouth are Truth, and there is no iniquity in them; 
Thy lips drop as the hony-combe. But oh! since we must part 
anon, let us (as thou saidst) improve our Minutes, and (according as 
thou promisedst) revive me with thy words, which are sweeter then 
the honey, and the honey-combe. 

CHAP. II. 

Deare Truth, I have two sad Complaints: 

First, The most sober of thy Witnesses, that dare to plead thy 
Cause, how are they charged to be mine Enemies, contentious, turbu- 
lent, seditious ? 

Secondly, Thine Enemies, though they speake and raile against 
thee, though they outragiously pursue, imprison, banish, kill thy 
faithfull Witnesses, yet how is all vermillion'd o're for Justice 'gainst 
the Hereticks? Yea, if they kindle coales, and blow the flames of 
devouring Warres, that leave neither Spirituall nor Civill State, but 
burns up Branch and Root, yet how doe all pretend an holy War? 
He that kills, and hee that 's killed, they both cry out, It is for God, and 
for their conscience. 

Tis true, nor one nor other seldome dare to plead the mighty Prince 
Christ Jesus for their Authour, yet both (both Protestant and Papist) 
pretend they have spoke with Moses and the Prophets, who all, say 



38 AMERICAN PROSE 



they (before Christ came) allowed such holy persecutions, holy Wanes 
against the enemies of holy Church 

Truth. Mine eares have long beene filled with a threefold 
dolefull Outcry. 

First, of one hundred forty foure thousand Virgins (Rev. 14) 
forc'd and ravisht by Emperours, Kings, and Governours to their beds 
of worship and Religion, set up (like Absaloms) on high in their severall 
States and Countries. 

Secondly, the cry of those precious soules under the Altar (Rev. 6.) 
the soules of such as have beene persecuted and slaine for the testi- 
mony and witnesse of Jesus, whose bloud hath beene spilt like water 
upon the earth, and that because they have held fast the truth and 
witnesse of Jesus, against the worship of the States and Times, com- 
pelling to an uniformity of State Religion. 

These cries of murthered Virgins who can sit still and heare? 
Who can but run with zeale inflamed to prevent the deflowring of 
chaste soules, and spilling of the bloud of the innocent? Humanity 
stirs up and prompts the Sonnes of men to draw materiall swords for a 
Virgins chastity and life, against a ravishing murtherer ? And Piety 
and Christianity must needs awaken the Sons of God to draw the 
spirituall sword (the Word of God) to preserve the chastity and life 
of spirituall Virgins, who abhorre the spiritual defilements of false 
worship, Rev. 14. 

Thirdly, the cry of the whole earth, made drunke with the bloud of 
its inhabitants, slaughtering each other in their blinded zeale, for 
Conscience, for Religion, against the Catholicizes, against the Luther- 
ans, &c. 

What fearfull cries within these twenty years of hundred thous- 
ands men, women, children, fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, 
brethren, sisters, old and young, high and low, plundred, ravished, 
slaughtered, murthered, famished ? And hence these cries, that men 
fling away the spirituall sword and spirituall artillery (in spirituall 
and religious causes) and rather trust for the suppressing of each 
others God, Conscience, and Religion (as they suppose) to an arme 
of flesh, and sword of Steele ? 

Truth. Sweet Peace, what hast thou there? 

Peace. Arguments against persecution for cause of Conscience. 

Truth. And what there ? 



ROGER WILLIAMS 39 



Peace. An Answer to such Arguments, contrarily maintaining 
such persecution for cause of Conscience. 

Truth. These Arguments against such persecution, and the 
Answer pleading for it, written (as Love hopes) from godly intentions, 
hearts, and hands, yet in a marvellous different stile and manner. The 
Arguments against persecution in milke, the Answer for it (as I may 
say) in bloud. 

The Authour of these Arguments (against persecution) (as I have 
beene informed) being committed by some then in power, close 
prisoner to Newgate for the witnesse of some truths of Jesus, and 
having not the use of Pen and Inke, wrote these Arguments in Milke, 
in sheets of Paper, brought to him by the Woman his Keeper, from a 
friend in London, as the stopples of his M z7& foW/e. 

In such Paper written with Milk nothing will appeare, but the 
way of reading it by fire being knowne to this friend who received the 
Papers, he transcribed and kept together the Papers, although the 
Author himselfe could not correct, nor view what himselfe had 
written. 

It was in milke, tending to soule nourishment, even for Babes and 
Sucklings in Christ. 

It was in milke, spiritually white, pure and innocent, like those 
white horses of the Word of truth and meeknesse, and the white Linnen 
or Armour of righteousnesse, in the Army of Jesus. Rev. 6 . & 19. 

It was in milke, soft, meeke, peaceable and gentle, tending both to 
the peace of soules, and the peace of States and Kingdomes. 

Peace. The Answer (though I hope out of milkie pure intentions) 
is returned in bloud: bloudy & slaughterous conclusions; bloudy to the 
souls of all men, forc'd to the Religion and Worship which every civil 
State or Common-weale agrees on, and compells all subjects to in a 
dissembled uniformitie. 

Bloudy to the bodies, first of the holy witnesses of Christ Jesus, 
who testifie against such invented worships. 

Secondly, of the Nations and Peoples slaughtering each other for 
their severall respective Religions and Consciences. 

CHAP. III. 

Truth. In the Answer Mr. Cotton first layes downe severall 
distinctions and conclusions of his owne, tending to prove persecution. 



4 o AMERICAN PROSE 



Secondly, Answers to the Scriptures, and Arguments proposed 
against persecution. 

Peace. The first distinction is this: By persecution for cause 
of Conscience, "I conceive you meane either for professing some 
point of doctrine which you beleeve in conscience to be the truth, or 
for practising some worke which you beleeve in conscience to be a 
religious dutie." 

Truth. I acknowledge that to molest any person, Jew or Gentile, 
for either professing doctrine, or practising worship meerly religious or 
spirituall, it is to persecute him, and such a person (what ever his 
doctrine or practice be, true or false ) suffereth persecution for con- 
science. 

But withall I desire it may bee well observed, that this distinction 
is not full and complete : For beside this that a man may be persecuted 
because he holdeth or practiseth what he beleeves in conscience to be 
a Truth, (as Daniel did, for which he was cast into the Lyons den, 
Dan. 6.) and many thousands of Christians, because they durst not 
cease to preach and practise what they beleeved was by God com- 
manded, as the Apostles answered {Acts 4 & 5.) I say besides this a 
man may also be persecuted, because hee dares not be constrained to 
yeeld obedience to such doctrines and worships as are by men invented 
and appointed. So the three famous J ewes were cast into the fiery 
furnace for refusing to fall downe (in a nonconformity to the whole 
conforming world) before the golden Image, Dan. 3.21. So thousands 
of Christs witnesses (and of late in those bloudy Marian dayes) have 
rather chose to yeeld their bodies to all sorts of torments, then to 
subscribe to doctrines, or practise worships, unto which the States and 
Times (as Nabuchadnezzar to his golden Image) have compelled and 
urged them 

CHAP. IV. 

Peace. The second distinction is this. 

In points of Doctrine some are fundamentall, without right 
beleefe whereof a man cannot be saved: others are circumstantiall 
and lesse principall, wherein a man may differ in judgement without 
prejudice of salvation on either part. 

Truth. To this distinction I dare not subscribe, for then I should 
everlastingly condemne thousands, and ten thousands, yea the 



ROGER WILLIAMS 41 



whole generation of the righteous, who since the falling away (from the 
first primitive Christian state or worship) have and doe erre funda- 
mentally concerning the true matter, constitution, gathering and 
governing of the Church: and yet farre be it from any pious breast 
to imagine that they are not saved, and that their soules are not 
bound up in the bundle of eternall life 

CHAP. XI. 

Peace. After explication in these Distinctions, it pleaseth the 
Answerer to give his resolution to the question in foure particulars. 

First, that he holds it not lawfull to persecute any for conscience 
sake rightly informed, for in persecuting such (saith he) Christ 
himself is persecuted: for which reason, truly rendred, he quotes 
Act. 9.4. Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me? 

Truth. He that shall reade this Conclusion over a thousand 
times, shall as soone finde darknesse in the bright beames of the 
Sunne, as in this so cleare and shining a beame of Truth, viz. That 
Christ Jesus in his Truth must not be persecuted. 

Yet this I must aske (for it will be admired by all sober men) 
what should be the cause or inducement to the Answerers mind to 
lay down such a Position or Thesis as this is, It is not lawfull to perse- 
cute the Lord Jesus. 

Search all Scriptures, Histories, Records, Monuments, consult 
with all experiences, did ever Pharaoh, Saul, Ahab, Jezabel, Scribes and 
Pharises, the Jewes, Herod, the bloudy Neroes, Gardiners, Boners, 
Pope or Devill himselfe, professe to persecute the Son of God, Jesus 
as Jesus, Christ as Christ, without a mask or covering ? 

No, saith Pharaoh, the Israelites are idle, and therefore speake 
they of sacrificing: David is risen up in a conspiracy against Saul, 
therefore persecute him: Naboth hath blasphemed God and the 
King, therefore stone him: Christ is a seducer of the people, a blas- 
phemer against God, and tray tor against Ccesar, therefore hang him: 
Christians are schismaticall, factious, hereticall, therefore persecute 
them: The Devill hath deluded John Hus, therefore crowne him with 
a paper of Devils, and burne him, &c. 

Peace. One thing I see apparantly in the Lords over-ruling the 
pen of this worthy Answerer, viz. a secret whispering from heaven to 
him, that (although his soules ayme at Christ, and hath wrought 



42 AMERICAN PROSE 



much for Christ in many sincere intentions, and Gods mercifull and 
patient acceptance) yet he hath never left the Tents of such who 
think they doe God good service in killing the Lord Jesus in his 
servants, and yet they say, if we had beene in the dayes of our Fathers 
in Queen Maries dayes, &c. we would never have consented to such 
persecution: And therefore when they persecute Christ Jesus in his 
truths or servants, they say, Doe not say you are persecuted for the 
Word for Christ his sake, for we hold it not lawfull to persecute Jesus 
Christ. 

Let me also adde a second; So farre as he hath beene a Guide (by 
preaching for persecution) I say, wherein he hath beene a Guide and 
Leader, by mis-interpreting and applying the Writings of Truth, so 
far I say his owne mouthes and hands shall judge (I hope not his 
persons, but) his actions, for the Lord Jesus hath suffered by him, 
Act. g. 3. and if the Lord Jesus himselfe were present, himselfe should 
suffer that in his owne person, which his servants witnessing his 
Truth doe suffer for his sake. 



NATHANIEL WARD 

FROM 

THE SIMPLE COBLER OF AGGAWAM 

THE IMPIOUS DOCTRINE OF TOLERATION 

Either I am in an Appoplexie, or that man is in a Lethargie, 
who doth not now sensibly feele God shaking the heavens over his 
head, and the earth under his feet: The Heavens so, as the Sun begins 
to turne into darknesse, the Moon into blood, the Starres to fall 
down to the ground; So that little Light of Comfort or Counsell is left 
to the sonnes of men: The Earth so, as the foundations are failing, 
the righteous scarce know where to finde rest, the inhabitants stagger 
like drunken men: it is in a manner dissolved both in Religions and 
Relations: And no marvell; for, they have defiled it by transgressing 
the Lawes, changing the Ordinances, and breaking the Everlasting 
Covenant. The Truths of God are the Pillars of the world, whereon 
States and Churches may stand quiet if they will; if they will 
not, Hee can easily shake them off into delusions, and distractions 
enough. 



NATHANIEL WARD 43 



Sathan is now in his passions, he feeles his passion approaching; 
hee loves to fish in royled waters. Though that Dragon cannot sting 
the vitals of the Elect mortally, yet that Beelzebub can fly-blow their 
Intellectuals miserably: The finer Religion grows, the finer hee spins 
his Cobwebs, hee will hold pace with Christ so long as his wits will 
serve him. Hee sees himselfe beaten out of grosse Idolatries, Heresies, 
Ceremonies, where the Light breakes forth with power; he will 
therefore bestirre him to prevaricate Evangelicall Truths, and Ordi- 
nances, that if they will needs be walking, yet they shall laborare 
varicibus, and not keep their path : he will put them out of time and 
place; Assascinating for his Engineers, men of Paracelsian parts; 
well complexioned for honesty; for, such are fittest to Mountebanke 
his Chimistry into sick Churches and weake Judgements. 

Nor shall hee neede to stretch his strength overmuch in this 
worke: Too many men having not laid then foundations sure, nor 
ballasted their Spirits deepe with humility and feare, are prest enough 
of themselves to evaporate their owne apprehensions. Those that 
are acquainted with Story know, it hath ever been so in new Editions 
of Churches: Such as are least able, are most busie to pudder in the 
rubbish, and to raise dust in the eyes of more steady Repayrers. 
Civill Commotions make roome for uncivill practises: Religious 
mutations, for irreligious opinions: Change of Aire, discovers corrupt 
bodies; Reformation of Religion, unsound mindes. Hee that hath 
any well-faced phansy in his Crowne, and doth not vent it now, fears 
the pride of his owne heart will dub him dunce for ever. Such a one 
will trouble the whole Israel of God with his most untimely births, 
though he makes the bones of his vanity sticke up, to the view and 
griefe of all that are godly wise. The devill desires no better sport 
then to see light heads handle their heels, and fetch their carreers in a 
time, when the Roofe of Liberty stands open. 

The next perplexed Question, with pious and ponderous men, 
will be: What should bee done for the healing of these comfortlesse 
exulcerations. I am the unablest adviser of a thousand, the unworthi- 
est of ten thousand; yet I hope I may presume to assert what follows 
without just offence. 

First, such as have given or taken any unfriendly reports of us 
New-English, should doe well to recollect themselves. Wee have 
beene reputed a Colluvies of wild Opinionists, swarmed into a remote 



44 AMERICAN PROSE 



wildernes to find elbow-roome for our phanatick Doctrines and 
practices: I trust our diligence past, and constant sedulity against 
such persons and courses, will plead better things for us. I dare 
take upon me, to bee the Herauld of New-England so farre, as to 
proclaime to the world, in the name of our Colony, that all Familists, 
Antinomians, Anabaptists, and other Enthusiasts, shall have free 
Liberty to keep away from us, and such as will come to be gone as 
fast as they can, the sooner the beter. 

Secondly, I dare averre, that God doth no where in his word 
tolerate Christian States, to give Tolerations to such adversaries of 
his Truth, if they have power in their hands to suppresse them. 

Here is lately brought us an Extract of a Magna Charta, so called, 
compiled between the Sub-planters of a West-Indian Island; whereof 
the first Article of constipulation, firmely provides free stable-room 
and litter for all kinde of consciences, be they never so dirty or jadish; 
making it actionable, yea, treasonable, to disturbe any man in his 
Religion, or to discommend it, whatever it be. Wee are very sorry 
to see such professed prophanenesse in English Professors, as indus- 
triously to lay their Religious foundations on the ruine of true 
religion; which strictly binds every conscience to contend earnestly 
for the Truth: to preserve unity of spirit, faith and Ordinances, to 
be all like-minded, of one accord; every man to take his brother into 
his Christian care: to stand fast with one spirit, with one mind, 
striving together for the faith of the Gospel: and by no meanes to 
permit Heresies or erronious opinions: But God abhorring such 
loathsome beverages, hath in his righteous judgement blasted that 
enterprize, which might otherwise have prospered well, for ought I 
know; I presume their case is generally knowne ere this. 

If the devill might have his free option, I beleeve he would ask 
nothing else, but liberty to enfranchize all false Religions, and to 
embondage the true; nor should hee need: It is much to be feared, 
that laxe Tolerations upon State-pretences and planting necessities, 
will be the next subtle Stratagem he will spread to distate the Truth 
of God and supplant the peace of the Churches. Tolerations in things 
tolerable, exquisitely drawn out by the lines of the Scripture, and 
pensill of the Spirit, are the sacred favours of Truth, the due latitudes 
of Love, the faire Compartiments of Christian fraternity: but irregu- 
lar dispensations, dealt forth by the facilities of men, are the frontiers 



NATHANIEL WARD 45 



of errour, the redoubts of Schisme, the perillous irritaments of carnall 
and spirituall enmity. 

My heart hath naturally detested foure things: The standing of 
the Apocrypha in the Bible; Forrainers dwelling in my Countrey, 
to crowd out native Subjects into the corners of the Earth; Alchy- 
mized coines; Tolerations of divers Religions, or of one Religion in 
segregant shapes: He that willingly assents to the last, if he examines 
his heart by day-light, his conscience will tell him, he is either an 
Atheist, or an Heretique, or an Hypocrite, or at best a captive to some 
Lust : poly-piety is the greatest impiety in the world. True Religion is 
Ignis probationis, which doth congregare homogenea & segregate 
heterogenic,. 

Not to tolerate things meerly indifferent to weak consciences, 
argues a conscience too strong: pressed uniformity in these, causes 
much disunity: To tolerate more than indifferents, is not to deale 
indifferently with God; He that doth it, takes his Scepter out of 
his hand, and bids him stand by. Who hath to doe to institute 
Religion but God. The power of all Religion and Ordinances, lies 
in their purity: their purity in their simplicity: then are mixtures 
pernicious. I lived in a City, where a Papist preached in one 
Church, a Lutheran in another, a Calvinist in a third; a Lutheran 
one part of the day, a Calvinist the other, in the same Pulpit: the 
Religion of that place was but motly and meagre, their affections 
Leopard-like. 

If the whole Creature should conspire to doe the Creator a mis- 
chiefe, or offer him an insolency, it would be in nothing more, than in 
erecting untruths against his Truth, or by sophisticating his Truths 
with humane medleyes: the removing of some one iota in Scripture, 
may draw out all the life, and traverse all the Truth of the whole Bible: 
but to authorise an untruth, by a Toleration of State, is to build a 
Sconce against the walls of heaven, to batter God out of his Chaire: 
To tell a practicall lye, is a great sin, but yet transient; but to set up a 
Theoricall untruth, is to warrant every lye that lyes from its root to the 
top of every branch it hath, which are not a few 

Concerning Tolerations I may further assert. 

That Persecution of true Religion, and Toleration of false, are 
the Jannes and Jambres to the Kingdome of Christ, whereof the last 
is farre the worst. Augustines tongue had not owed his mouth one 



46 AMERICAN PROSE 



penny-rent though it had never spake word more in it, but this, 

Nullum malum pejus libertate errandi. 

Frederick Duke of Saxon, spake not one foote beyond the mark 
when he said, He had rather the Earth should swallow him up 
quick, then he should give a toleration to any opinion against any 
truth of God. 

He that is willing to tolerate any Religion, or discrepant way of 
Religion, besides his own, unlesse it be in matters meerly indifferent, 
either doubts of his own, or is not sincere in it. 

He that is willing to tolerate any unsound Opinion, that his own 
may also be tolerated, though never so sound, will for a need hang 
Gods Bible at the Devils girdle. 

Every Toleration of false Religions, or Opinions hath as many 
Errours and sins in it, as all the false Religions and Opinions it toler- 
ates, and one sound one more. 

That State that will give Liberty of Conscience in matters of 
Religion, must give Liberty of Conscience and Conversation in their 
Morall Laws, or else the Fiddle will be out of tune, and some of the 
strings cracke. 

women's fashions and long hair on men 

Should I not keep promise in speaking a little to Womens fashions, 
they would take it unkindly: I was loath to pester better matter with 
such stuff e; I rather thought it meet to let them stand by themselves, 
like the Quce Genus in the Grammer, being Deficients, or Redundants, 
not to be brought under any Rule: I shall therefore make bold for 
this once, to borrow a little of their loose tongued Liberty, and mispend 
a word or two upon their long- wasted, but short-skirted patience: a 
little use of my stirrup will doe no harme. 

Redendem dicer e verum, quid prohibit ? 
Gray Gravity it selfe can well beteame, 
That Language be adopted to the Theme. 
Hee that to Parrots speaks, must parrotise; 
He that instructs a foole, may act th' unwise. 

It is known more then enough, that I am neither Nigard, nor 
Cinick, to the due bravery of the true Gentry: if any man mislikes a 
bully mong drossock more then I, let him take her for all mee: I 



NATHANIEL WARD 47 



honour the woman that can honour her self with her attire: a good 
Text alwayes deserves a fair Margent : I am not much offended, if I 
see a trimme, far trimmer than she that wears it: in a word, whatever 
Christianity or Civility will allow, I can afford with London measure: 
but when I heare a nugiperous Gentledame inquire what dresse the 
Queen is in this week: what the nudiustertian fashion of the Court; 
I meane the very newest: with egge to be in it in all hast, what ever it 
be; I look at her as the very gizzard of a trifle, the product of a quarter 
of a cypher, the epitome of nothing, fitter to be kickt, if shee were of a 
kickable substance, than either honoured or humoured. 

To speak moderately, I truly confesse, it is beyond the kin of my 
understanding to conceive, how those women should have any true 
grace, or valuable vertue, that have so little wit, as to disfigure them- 
selves with such exotick garbes, as not only dismantles their native 
lovely lustre, but transclouts them into gant bar-geese, ill-shapen- 
shotten-shell-fish, Egyptian Hyeroglyphicks, or at the best into French 
flurts of the pastery, which a proper English woman should scorne with 
her heeles: it is no marvell they weare drailes, on the hinder part of 
their heads, having nothing as it seems in the fore-part, but a few 
Squirrills braines, to help them frisk from one ill-favor'd fashion to 
another. 

These whimm' Crown' d shees, these fashion-fansying wits, 
Are empty thin brain' d shells and fidling Kits, 

the very troublers and impovirishers of mankind. I can hardly for- 
bear to commend to the world a saying of a Lady living sometime 
with the Queen of Bohemian, I know not where she found it, but it is 
pitty it should be lost. 

The world is full of care, much like unto a bubble; 

Women and care, and care and women, and women and care and trouble. 

The Verses are even enough for such odde pegma's. I can make 
my selfe sick at any time, with comparing the dazzeling splender 
wherwith our Gentlewomen were embellished in some former habits, 
with the gut-f oundred goosdom, wherewith they are now surcingled and 
debauched. We have about five or six of them in our Colony : if I see 
any of them accidentally, I cannot cleanse my phansie of them for a 
moneth after. I have been a solitary widdower almost twelve years, 
purposed lately to make a step over to my Native Country for a 



48 AMERICAN PROSE 



yoke-fellow: but when I consider how women there have tripe- wif ted 
themselves with their cladments, I have no heart to the voyage, lest 
their nauseous shapes and the Sea, should work too sorely upon my 
stomach. I speak sadly; me thinkes it should break the hearts of 
English-men, to see so many goodly English-women imprisoned in 
French Cages, peering out of their hood-holes for some men of mercy 
to help them with a little wit, and no body relieves them. 

It is a more common then convenient saying, that nine Taylers 
make a man: it were well if nineteene could make a woman to her 
mind: if Taylors were men indeed, well furnished but with meer 
morall principles, they would disdain to be led about like Apes, by 
such mymick Marmosets. It is a most unworthy thing, for men 
that have bones in them, to spend their lives in making fidle-cases for 
futilous womens phansies; which are the very pettitoes of infirmity, 
the gyblits of perquisquilian toyes. I am so charitable to think, that 
most of that mistery would worke the cheerfuller while they live, if 
they might be well discharged of the tyring slavery of mis-tyring 
women: it is no labour to be continually putting up English-women 
into Out-landish caskes; who if they be not shifted anew, once in a 
few moneths, grow too sowre for their Husbands. What this Trade 
will answer for themselves when God shall take measure of Taylors 
consciences is beyond my skill to imagine. There was a time when 

The joyning of the Red-Rose with the White, 
Did set our State into a Damask plight. 

But now our Roses are turned to Flore de lices, our Carnations 
to Tulips, our Gilliflowers to pansies, our City-Dames, to an inde- 
nominable Qusemalry of overturcas'd things. Hee that makes 
Coates for the Moone, had need take measure every noone; and he 
that makes for women, every Moone, to keepe them from Lunacy. 

I have often heard divers Ladies vent loud feminine complaints 
of the wearisome varieties and chargable changes of fashions: I 
mar veil themselves preferre not a Bill of redresse. I would Essex 
Ladies would lead the Chore, for the honour of their County and 
persons; or rather the thrice honourable Ladies of the Court, whom it 
best beseems: who may wel presume of a Le Roy le veult from our 
sober King, a Les Seigneurs ont Assentus from our prudent Peers, and 
the like Assentus, from our considerate, I dare not say wife-worne 



NATHANIEL WARD 49 



Commons: who I beleeve had much rather passe one such Bill, than 
pay so many Taylors Bils as they are forced to doe. 

Most deare and unparallel'd Ladyes, be pleased to attempt it: 
as you have the precellency of the women of the world for beauty and 
feature; so assume the honour to give, and not take Law from any, 
in matter of attire: if ye can transact so faire a motion among your 
selves unanimously, I dare say, they that most renite, will least repent. 
What greater honour can your Honors desire, then to build a Promon- 
tory president to all foraigne Ladies, to deserve so eminently at the 
hands of all the English Gentry present and to come: and to confute 
the opinion of all the wise men in the world; who never thought it 
possible for women to doe so good a work ? 

I addresse my selfe to those who can both hear and mend all if 
they please: I seriously feare, if the pious Parliament doe not finde a 
time to state fashions, as ancient Parliaments have done in some part, 
God will hardly finde a time to state Religion or Peace: They are 
the surguedryes of pride, the wantonnesse of idlenesse, provoking 
sins, the certain prodromies of assured judgement, Zeph. 1.7, 8. 

It is beyond all account, how many Gentlemens and Citizens 
estates are deplumed by their feather-headed wives, what usefull 
supplies the pannage of England would afford other Countries, what 
rich returnes to it selfe, if it were not slic'd out into male and female 
fripperies: and what a multitude of mis-employ 'd hands, might be 
better improv'd in some more manly Manufactures for the publique 
weale: it is not easily credible, what may be said of the preterplurali- 
ties of Taylors in London: I have heard an honest man say that not 
long since there were numbered between Temple-barre and Charing- 
crosse, eight thousand of that Trade: let it be conjectured by that 
proportion how many there are in and about London, and in all Eng- 
land, they will appeare to be very numerous. If the Parliament 
would please to mend women, which their Husbands dare not 
doe, there need not so many men to make and 'mend as there are. I 
hope the present dolefull estate of the Realme, will perswade more 
strongly to some considerate course herein, than I now can. 

Knew I how to bring it in, I would speak a word to long haire, 
whereof I will say no more but this: if God proves not such a B arbor 
to it as he threatens, unlesse it be amended, Esa. 7 . 20. before the 
Peace of the State and Church be well setled, then let my prophecy 



50 AMERICAN PROSE 



be scorned, as a sound minde scornes the ryot of that sin, and more it 
needs not. If those who are tearmed Rattle-heads and impuritans, 
would take up a Resolution to begin in moderation of haire, to the 
just reproach of those that are called Puritans and Round-heads, I 
would honour their manlinesse, as much as the others godlinesse, so 
long as I knew what man or honour meant: if neither can finde a 
Barbours shop, let them turne in, to Psal. 68. 21. Jer. 7. 29. 1 Cor. 
n. 14. If it be thought no wisedome in men to distinguish them- 
selves in the field by the Scissers, let it be thought no injustice in God, 
not to distinguish them by the Sword. I had rather God should 
know me by my sobriety, than mine enemy not know me by my 
vanity. He is ill kept, that is kept by his own sin. A short promise, 
is a farre safer guard than a long lock: it is an ill distinction which 
God is loth to looke at and his Angels cannot know his Saints by. 
Though it be not the mark of the Beast, yet it may be the mark of a 
beast prepared to slaughter. I am sure men use nott to weare such 
manes; I am also sure Souldiers use to weare other marklets or 
notadoes in time of battell. 



JOHN MASON 

FROM 

A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE PEQUOT WAR 

On the Thursday about eight of the Clock in the Morning, we 
Marched thence towards Pequot, with about five hundred Indians: 
But through the Heat of the Weather and want of Provisions, some 
of our Men Fainted: And having Marched about twelve Miles, we 
came to Pawcatuck River, at a Ford where our Indians told us the 
Pequots did usually Fish; there making an Alta, we stayed some 
small time: The Narragansett Indians manifesting great Fear, in so 
much that many of them returned, although they had frequently 
despised us, saying, That we durst not look upon a Pequot, but them- 
selves would perform great Things; though we had often told them 
that we came on purpose and were resolved, God assisting, to see the 
Pequots, and to Fight with them before we returned, though we perished. 
I then enquired of Onkos, what he thought the Indians would do? 
Who said, The Narragansetts would all leave us, but as for Himself 



JOHN MASON 51 



He would never leave us: and so it proved: For which Expressions 
and some other Speeches of his, I shall never forget him. Indeed he 
was a great Friend, and did great Service. 

And after we had refreshed our selves with our mean Commons, 
we Marched about three Miles, and came to a Field which had lately 
been planted with Indian Corn: There we made another Alt, and 
called our Council, supposing we drew near to the Enemy: And 
being informed by the Indians that the Enemy had two Forts almost 
impregnable; but we were not at all Discouraged, but rather Ani- 
mated, in so much that we were resolved to Assault both their Forts 
at once. But understanding that one of them was so remote that we 
could not come up with it before Midnight, though we Marched hard; 
whereat we were much grieved, chiefly because the greatest and 
bloodiest Sachem there resided, whose Name was Sassacous: We 
were then constrained, being exceedingly spent in our March with 
extream Heat and want of Necessaries, to accept of the nearest. 

We then Marching on in a silent Manner, the Indians that 
remained fell all into the Rear, who formerly kept the Van; (being 
possessed with great Fear) we continued our March till about one 
Hour in the Night: and coming to a little Swamp between two Hills, 
there we pitched our litttle Camp ; much wearied with hard Travel, 
keeping great Silence, supposing we were very near the Fort as our 
Indians informed us; which proved otherwise: The Rocks were our 
Pillows; yet Rest was pleasant : The Night proved Comfortable, being 
clear and Moon Light: We appointed our Guards and placed our 
Sentinels at some distance; who heard the Enemy Singing at the 
Fort, who continued that Strain until Midnight, with great Insulting 
and Rejoycing, as we were afterwards informed: They seeing our 
Pinnaces sail by them some Days before, concluded we were affraid 
of them and durst not come near them; the Burthen of their Song 
tending to that purpose. 

In the Morning, we awaking and seeing it very light, supposing 
it had been day, and so we might have lost our Opportunity, having 
purposed to make our Assault before Day; rowsed the Men with all 
expedition, and briefly commended ourselves and Design to God, 
thinking immediately to go to the Assault; the Indians shewing us 
a Path, told us that it led directly to the Fort. We held on our March 
about two Miles, wondering that we came not to the Fort, and fearing 



52 AMERICAN PROSE 



we might be deluded: But seeing Corn newly planted at the Foot of 
a great Hill, supposing the Fort was not far off, a Champion Country- 
being round about us; then making a stand, gave the Word for some 
of the Indians to come up : At length Onkos and one Wequosh ap- 
peared : We demanded of them, Where was the Fort ? They answered, 
On the Top of that Hill: Then we demanded, Where were the Rest of 
the Indians? They answered, Behind, exceedingly afraid: We 
wished them to tell the rest of their Fellows, That they should by no 
means Fly, but stand at what distance they pleased, and see whether 
English Men would now Fight or not. Then Captain Underhill came 
up, who Marched in the Rear; and commending our selves to God 
divided our Men: There being two Entrances into the Fort, intending 
to enter both at once: Captain Mason leading up to that on the North 
East Side; who approaching within one Rod, heard a Dog bark and 
an Indian crying Owanux! Owanuxl which is Englishmen! English- 
men! We called up our Forces with all expedition, gave Fire upon 
them through the Pallizado; the Indians being in a dead indeed their 
last Sleep : Then we wheeling off fell upon the main Entrance, which 
was blocked up with Bushes about Breast high, over which the Cap- 
tain passed, intending to make good the Entrance, encouraging the 
rest to follow. Lieutenant Seeley endeavoured to enter; but being 
somewhat cumbred, stepped back and pulled out the Bushes and 
so entred, and with him about sixteen Men: We had formerly con- 
cluded to destroy them by the Sword and save the Plunder. 

Whereupon Captain Mason seeing no Indians, entred a Wigwam; 
where he was beset with many Indians, waiting all opportunities to 
lay Hands on him, but could not prevail. At length William Heydon 
espying the Breach in the Wigwam, supposing some English might 
be there, entred; but in his Entrance fell over a dead Indian; but 
speedily recovering himself, the Indians some fled, others crept under 
their Beds: The Captain going out of the Wigwam saw many Indians 
in the Lane or Street; he making towards them, they fled, were pur- 
sued to the End of the Lane, where they were met by Edward Pattison, 
Thomas Barber, with some others; where seven of them were Slain, 
as they said. The Captain facing about, Marched a slow Pace up 
the Lane he came down, perceiving himself very much out of 
Breath; and coming to the other End near the Place where he first 
entred, saw two Soldiers standing close to the Pallizado with their 



JOHN MASON 53 



Swords pointed to the Ground: The Captain told them that We 
should never kill them after that manner: The Captain also said, We 
must Burn them; and immediately stepping into the Wigwam 
where he had been before, brought out a Fire-Brand, and putting 
it into the Matts with which they were covered, set the Wigwams 
on Fire. Lieutenant Thomas Bull and Nicholas Omsted beholding, 
came up; and when it was throughly kindled, the Indians ran as 
Men most dreadfully Amazed. 

And indeed such a dreadful Terror did the Almighty let fall 
upon their Spirits, that they would fly from us and run into the very 
Flames, where many of them perished. And when the Fort was 
throughly Fired, Command was given, that all should fall off and 
surround the Fort; which was readily attended by all; only one 
Arthur Smith being so wounded that he could not move out of the 
Place, who was happily espied by Lieutenant Bull, and by him rescued. 

The Fire was kindled on the North East Side to windward; 
which did swiftly overrun the Fort, to the extream Amazement of the 
Enemy, and great Rejoycing of our selves. Some of them climbing 
to the Top of the Palizado; others of them running into the very 
Flames; many of them gathering to windward, lay pelting at us with 
their Arrows; and we repay ed them with our small Shot: Others of 
the Stoutest issued forth, as we did guess, to the Number of Forty, 
who perished by the Sword. 

What I have formerly said, is according to my own Knowlege, 
there being sufficient living Testimony to every Particular. 

But in reference to Captain Underhill and his Parties acting in 
this Assault, I can only intimate as we were informed by some of them- 
selves immediately after the Fight. Thus They Marching up to the 
Entrance on the South West Side, there made some Pause; a valiant, 
resolute Gentleman, one Mr. Hedge, stepping towards the Gate, 
saying, If we may not Enter, wherefore came we hear; and immedi- 
ately endeavoured to Enter; but was opposed by a sturdy Indian 
which did impede his Entrance: but the Indian being slain by him- 
self and Serjeant Davis, Mr. Hedge Entred the Fort with some others; 
but the Fort being on Fire, the Smoak and Flames were so violent 
that they were constrained to desert the Fort. 

Thus were they now at their Wits End, who not many Hours before 
exalted themselves in their great Pride, threatning and resolving the 



54 AMERICAN PROSE 



utter Ruin and Destruction of all the English, Exulting and Rejoycing 
with Songs and Dances: But God was above them, who laughed his 
Enemies and the Enemies of his People to Scorn, making them as 
a fiery Oven: Thus were the Stout Hearted spoiled, having slept 
their last Sleep, and none of their Men could find their Hands: Thus 
did the Lord judge among the Heathen, filling the Place with dead 
Bodies! 

MARY ROWLANDSON 

PROM 

A NARRATIVE OF THE CAPTIVITY 

On the tenth of February 1675, Came the Indians with great 
numbers upon Lancaster: Their first coming was about Sunrising; 
hearing the noise of some Guns, we looked out; several Houses were 
burning, and the Smoke ascending to Heaven. There were five 
persons taken in one house, the Father, and the Mother and a sucking 
Child they knockt on the head; the other two they took and carried 
away alive. Their were two others, who being out of their Garison 
upon some occasion, were set upon; one was knockt on the head, the 
other escaped: Another their was who running along was shot and 
wounded, and fell down; he begged of them his life, promising them 
Money (as they told me) but they would not hearken to him but 
knockt him in head, and stript him naked, and split open his Bowels. 
Another seeing many of the Indians about his Barn, ventured and 
went out, but was quickly shot down. There were three others 
belonging to the same Garison who were killed; the Indians getting 
up upon the roof of the Barn, had advantage to shoot down upon 
them over their Fortification. Thus these murtherous wretches went 
on, burning, and destroying before them. 

At length they came and beset our own house, and quickly it 
was the dolefullest day that ever mine eyes saw. The House stood 
upon the edg of a hill; some of the Indians got behind the hill, others 
into the Barn, and others behind any thing that could shelter them; 
from all which places they shot against the House, so that the Bullets 
seemed to fly like hail; and quickly they wounded one man among 
us, then another, and then a third. About two hours (according to 
my observation, in that amazing time) they had been about the 
house before they prevailed to fire it (which they did with Flax and 



MARY ROWLANDSON 55 

Hemp, which they brought out of the Barn, and there being no defence 
about the House, only two Flankers at two opposite corners and one 
of them not finished) ; they fired it once and one ventured out and 
quenched it, but they quickly fired it again, and that took. Now 
is the dreadfull hour come, that I have often heard of (in time of War, 
as it was the case of others) but now mine eyes see it. Some in our 
house were fighting for their lives, others wallowing in their blood, 
the House on fire over our heads, and the bloody Heathen ready to 
knock iis on the head, if we stired' out. Now might we hear 
Mothers & Children crying out for themselves, and one another, 
Lord, What shall we do ? Then I took my Children (and one of my 
sisters, hers) to go forth and leave the house: but as soon as. we came 
to the dore and appeared, the Indians shot so thick that the bulletts 
rattled against the House, as if one had taken an handful! of stones 
and threw them, so that we were fain to give back. We had six stout 
Dogs belonging to our Garrison, but none of them would stir, though 
another time, if any Indian had come to the door, they were ready 
to fly upon him and tear him down. The Lord hereby would make 
us the more to acknowledge his hand, and to see that- our help is 
alwayes in him. But out we must go, the fire increasing, and coming 
along behind us, roaring, and the Indians gaping before us with their 
Guns, Spears and Hatchets to devour us. No sooner were we out 
of the House, but my Brother in Law (being before wounded, in 
defending the house, in or near the throat) fell down dead, whereat 
the Indians scornfully shouted, and hallowed, and were presently 
upon him, stripping off his cloaths; the bulletts flying thick, one 
went through my side, and the same (as would seem) through the 
bowels and hand of my dear Child in my arms. One of my elder 
Sisters Children, named William, had then his Leg broken, which the 
Indians perceiving, they knockt him on head. Thus were we 
butchered by those merciless Heathen, standing amazed, with the 
blood running down to our heels. My eldest Sister being yet in the 
House, and seeing those wofull sights, the Infidels haling Mothers 
one way, and Children another, and some wallowing in their blood; 
and her elder Son telling her that her Son William was dead, and my 
self was wounded, she said, And, Lord let me dy with them; which was 
no sooner said, but she was struck with a Bullet, and fell down dead 
over the threshold. I hope she is reaping the fruit of her good 
labours, being faithfull to the service of God in her place. In her 



56 AMERICAN PROSE 



younger years she lay under much trouble upon spiritual accounts, 
till it pleased God to make that precious Scripture take hold of her 
heart, 2 Cor. 12.9. And he said unto me my Grace is sufficient for thee. 
More then twenty years after I have heard her tell how sweet and com- 
fortable that place was to her. But to return: The Indians laid 
hold of me, pulling me on[e] way, and the Children another, and said, 
Come go along with us; I told them they would kill me : they answered, 
// / were willing to go along with them, they would not hurt me. 

Oh the dolefull sight that now was to behold at this House! 
Come, behold the works of the Lord, what dissolalions he has made in 
the Earth. Of thirty seven persons who were in this one House, none 
escaped either present death, or a bitter captivity, save only one, 
who might say as he, Job. 1. 15. And I only am escaped alone to 
tell the News. There were twelve killed, some shot, some stab'd with 
their Spears, some knock'd down with their Hatchets. When we 
are in prosperity, Oh the little that we think of such dreadfull sights, 
and to see our dear Friends, and Relations ly bleeding out their 
heart-blood upon the ground. There was one who was chopt into 
the head with a Hatchet, and stript naked, and yet was crawling up 
and down. It is a solemn sight to see so many Christians lying in 
their blood, some here, and some there, like a company of Sheep torn 
by Wolves. All of them stript naked by a company of hell-hounds, 
roaring, singing, ranting and insulting, as if they would have torn our 
very hearts out; yet the Lord by his Almighty power preserved a 
number of us from death, for there were twenty-four of us taken alive 
and carried Captive. 

/ had often before this said, that if the Indians should come, I should 
chuse rather to be killed by them then taken alive but when it came to 
the tryal my mind changed; their glittering weapons so daunted 
my spirit, that I chose rather to go along with those (as I may say) 
ravenous Bears, then that moment to end my dayes; and that I may 
the better declare what happened to me during that grievous Cap- 
tivity I shall particularly speak of the several! Removes we had up 
and down the Wilderness. 

The first Remove 

Now away we must go with those Barbarous Creatures, with 
our bodies wounded and bleeding, and our hearts no less than our 



MARY ROWLANDSON 57 

bodies. About a mile we went that night, up upon a hill within 
sight of the Town where they intended to lodge. There was hard 
by a vacant house (deserted by the English before, for fear of the 
Indians) ; I asked them whither I might not lodge in the house that 
night to which they answered, What, will you love English men still ? 
This was the dolefullest night that ever my eyes saw. Oh the roar- 
ing, and singing and danceing, and yelling of those black creatures 
in the night, which made the place a lively resemblance of hell. And 
as miserable was the wast that was there made, of Horses, Cattle, 
Sheep, Swine, Calves, Lambs, Roasting Pigs, and Fowl [which they had 
plundered in the Town] some roasting, some lying and burning, and 
some boy ling to feed our merciless Enemies; who were joyful enough 
though we were disconsolate. To add to the dolefulness of the 
former day, and the dismalness of the present night: my thoughts 
ran up on my losses and sad bereaved condicion. All was gone, my 
Husband gone (at least separated from me, he being in the Bay; 
and to add to my grief, the Indians told me they would kill him as 
he came homeward), my Children gone, my Relations and Friends 
gone, our House and home and all our comforts within door, and 
without, all was gone (except my life) and I knew not but the next 
moment that might go too. There remained nothing to me but one 
poor wounded Babe, and it seemed at present worse than death that 
it was in such a pitiful condition, bespeaking Compassion, and I had 
no refreshing for it, nor suitable things to revive it. Little do many 
think what is the savageness and bruitishness of this barbarous 
Enemy; even those that seem to profess more than others among 
them, when the English have fallen into their hands. 

Those seven that were killed at Lancaster the summer before 
upon a Sabbath day, and the one that was afterward killed upon a 
week day, were slain and mangled in a barbarous manner, by one- 
ey'd John, and Marlborough's Praying Indians, which Capt. Mosely 
brought to Boston, as the Indians told me. 

The second Remove 

But now, the next morning, I must turn my back upon the Town, 
and travel with them into the vast and desolate Wilderness, I knew not 
whither. It is not my tongue, or pen can express the sorrows of my 
heart, and bitterness of my spirit, that I had at this departure: but 



58 AMERICAN PROSE 



God was with me, in a wonderfull manner, carrying me along, and 
bearing up my spirit, that it did not quite fail. One of the Indians 
carried my poor wounded Babe upon a horse; it went moaning all 
along, I shall dy, I shall dy. I went on foot after it, with sorrow that 
cannot be exprest. At length I took it off the horse, and carried it 
in my armes till my strength failed, and I fell down with it: Then 
they set me upon a horse with my wounded Child in my lap ; and 
there being no furnituure upon the horse back, as we were going 
down a steep hill, we both fell over the horses head, at which they 
like inhumane creatures laught, and rejoyced to see it, though I 
thought we should there have ended our dayes, as overcome with so 
many difficulties. But the Lord renewed my strength still, and 
carried me along, that I might see more of his Power; yea, so much 
that I could never have thought of, had I not experienced it. 

After this it quickly began to snow, and when night came on, they 
stopt: and now down I must sit in the snow, by a little fire, and a few 
boughs behind me, with my sick Child in my lap; and calling much for 
water, being now {through the wound) fallen into a violent Fever. My 
own wound also growing so stiff, that I could scarce sit down or rise 
up; yet so it must be, that I must sit all this cold winter night upon 
the cold snowy ground, with my sick Child in my armes, looking 
that every hour would be the last of its life; and having no Christian 
friend near me, either to comfort or help me. Oh, I may see the 
wonderfull power of God, that my Spirit did not utterly sink under my 
affliction: still the Lord upheld me with his gracious and mercifull Spirit, 
and we were both alive to see the light of the next morning. 

The twelfth Remove 

It was upon a Sabbath-day-morning, that they prepared for their 
Travel. This morning I asked my master whither he would sell me 
to my Husband; he answered me Nux, which did much rejoyce my 
spirit. My mistriss, before we went, was gone to the burial of a 
Papoos, and returning, she found me sitting and reading in my Bible; 
she snatched it hastily out of my hand, and threw it out of doors; 
I ran out and catcht it up, and put it into my pocket, and never let 
her see it afterward. Then they pack'd up their things to be gone, 
and gave me my load : I complained it was too heavy whereupon she 



MARY ROWLANDSON 59 

gave me a slap in the face, and bade me go; I lifted up my heart to 
God, hoping the Redemption was not far off: and the rather because 
their insolency grew worse and worse. 

But the thoughts of my going homeward (for so we bent our course) 
much cheared my Spirit, and made my burden seem light, and almost 
nothing at all. But (to my amazment and great perplexity) the scale 
was soon turned: for when we had gone a little way, on a sudden 
my mistriss gives out, she would go no further, but turn back again, 
and said I must go back again with her, and she called her Sannup, 
and would have had him gone back also, but he would not, but said, 
He would go on, and come to us again in three dayes. My Spirit was 
upon this, I confess, very impatient, and almost outragious. I 
thought I could as well have dyed as went back: I cannot declare 
the trouble that I was in about it; but yet back again I must go. 
As soon as I had an opportunity, I took my Bible to read, and that 
quieting Scripture came to my hand, Psal. 46.10. Be still, and know 
that I am God. Which stilled my spirit for the present: But a sore 
time of tryal, I concluded, I had to go through. My master being 
gone, who seemed to me the best friend that I had of an Indian, both 
in cold and hunger, and quickly so it proved. Down I sat, with my 
heart as full as it could hold, and yet so hungry that I could not sit 
neither: but going out to see what I could find, and walking among 
the Trees, I found six Acrons, and two Ches-nuts, which were some 
refreshment to me. Towards Night I gathered me some sticks for 
my own comfort, that I might not ly a-cold: but when we came to ly 
down they bade me go out, and ly some-where-else, for they had 
company (they said) come in more than their own: I told them, I 
could not tell where to go, they bade me go look; I told them, if I 
went to another Wigwam they would be angry, and send me home 
again. Then one of the Company drew his sword, and told me he 
would run me thorough if I did not go presently. Then was I fain 
to stoop to this rude fellow, and to go out in the night, I knew not 
whither. Mine eyes have seen that fellow afterwards walking up and 
down Boston, under the appearance of a Friend-Indian, and severall 
others of the like Cut. I went to one Wigwam, and they told me they 
had no room. Then I went to another, and they said the same; at 
last an old Indian bade me come to him, and his Squaw gave me some 
Ground-nuts; she gave me also something to lay under my head, 



6o AMERICAN PROSE 



and a good fire we had: and through the good providence of God, 
I had a comfortable lodging that night. In the morning, another 
Indian bade me come at night, and he would give me six Ground nuts, 
which I did. We were at this place and time about two miles from 
Connecticut River. We went in the morning to gather Ground-nuts, 
to the River, and went back again that night. I went with a good 
load at my back (for they when they went, though but a little way, 
would carry all their trumpery with them) ; I told them the skin 
was off my back, but I had no other comforting answer from them 
than this, That it would be no matter if my head were off too. 



The ninteenth Remove 

They said, when we went out, that we must travel to Wachuset this 
day. But a bitter weary day I had of it, travelling now three dayes 
together, without resting any day between. At last, after many 
weary steps, I saw Wachuset hills, but many miles off. Then we 
came to a great Swamp, through which we travelled up to the knees, 
in mud and water, which was heavy going to one tyred before. Being 
almost spent, I thought I should have sunk down at last, and never 
gat out; but I may say, as in Psal.g^. 18. When my foot slipped, thy 
mercy, O Lord held me up. Going along, having indeed my life, but 
little spirit, Philip, who was in the Company, came up and took me 
by the hand, and said, Two weeks more and you shal be Mistress again. 
I asked him, if he spake true ? he answered, Yes, and quickly you shal 
come to your master again; who had been gone from us three weeks. 
After many weary steps we came to Wachuset, where he was: and 
glad I was to see him. He asked me, When I washt me? I told 
him not this month, then he fetcht me some water himself, and bid 
me wash, and gave me the Glass to see how I lookt; and bid his 
Squaw give me something to eat: so she gave me a mess of Beans and 
meat, and a little Ground-nut Cake. I was wonderfully revived 
with this favour shewed me, Psal. 106.46. He made them also to be 
pittied, of all those that carried them Captives. 

My master had three Squaws, living sometimes with one, and some- 
times with another one, this old Squaw, at whose Wigwan / was, and 
with whom my Master had been those three weeks. Another was 
Wettimore, with whom I had lived and served all this while: A severe 



MARY ROWLANDSON 6l 

and proud Dame she was; bestowing every day in dressing her self 
neat as much time as any of the Gentry of the land : powdering her 
hair, and painting her face, going with Neck-laces, with Jewels in 
her ears, and Bracelets upon her hands: When she had dressed her 
self, her work was to make Girdles of Wampom and Beads. The 
third Squaw was a younger one, by whom he had two Papooses. 
By that time I was refresht by the old Squaw, with whom my master 
was, Wettimores Maid came to call me home, at which I fell a weeping. 
Then the old Squaw told me, to encourage me, that if I wanted 
victuals, I should come to her, and that I should ly there in her 
Wigwam. Then I went with the maid, and quickly came again and 
lodged there. The Squaw laid a Mat under me, and a good Rugg 
over me; the first time I had any such kindness shewed me. I under- 
stood that Wettimore thought, that if she should let me go and serve 
with the old Squaw, she would be in danger to loose, not only my 
service, but the redemption-pay also. And I was not a little glad 
to hear this; being by it raised in my hopes, that in Gods due time 
there would be an end of this sorrowfull hour. Then came an Indian, 
and asked me to knit him three pair of Stockins, for which I had a 
Hat, and a silk Handkerchief. Then another asked me to mak her 
a shift, for which she gave me an Apron 

I may well say as his Psal. 107. 12 Oh give thanks unto the Lord 
for he is good, for his mercy endureth for ever. Let the Redeemed of 
the Lord say so, whom he hath redeemed from the hand of the Enemy, 
especially that I should come away in the midst of so many hundreds 
of Enemies quietly and peacably, and not a Dog moving his tongue. 
So I took my leave of them, and in coming along my heart melted 
into tears, more then all the while I was with them, and I was almost 
swallowed up with the thoughts that ever I should go home again. 
About the Sun going down, Mr. Hoar, and my self, and the two 
Indians came to Lancaster, and a solemn sight it was to me. There 
had I lived many comfortable years amongst my Relations and 
Neighbours, and now not one Christian to be seen, nor one house left 
standing. We went on to a Farm house that was yet standing, where 
we lay all night: and a comfortable lodging we had, though nothing 
but straw to ly on. The Lord preserved us in safety that night, and 
raised us up again in the morning, and carried us along, that before 



62 AMERICAN PROSE 



noon, we came to Concord. Now was I full of joy, and yet not with- 
out sorrow: joy to see such a lovely sight, so many Christians together, 
and some of them my Neighbours: There I met with my Brother, 
and my Brother in Law, who asked me, if I knew where his Wife 
was ? Poor heart! he had helped to bury her, and knew it not; she 
being shot down by the house was partly burnt: so that those who 
were at Boston at the desolation of the Town, and came back after- 
ward, and buried the dead, did not know her. Yet I w[a]s not with- 
out sorrow, to think how many were looking and longing, and my 
own Children amongst the rest, to enjoy that deliverance that I had 
now received; and I did not know whither ever I should see them 
again. Being recruited with food and raiment we went to Boston 
that day, where I met with my dear Husband, but the thoughts of 
our dear Children, one being dead, and the other we could not tell 

where, abated our comfort each to other 

Before I knew what affliction meant, I was ready sometimes to 
wish for it. When I lived in prosperity; having the comforts of the 
World about me, my relations by me, my Heart chearfull: and taking 
little care for any thing; and yet seeing many, whom I preferred 
before my self, under many tryals and afflictions, in sickness, weak- 
ness, poverty, losses, crosses, and cares of the World, I should be 
sometimes jealous least I should have my portion in this life, and that 
Scripture would come to my mind, Heb. 12.6. For whom the Lord 
loveth he chasteneth, and scour geth every Son whom he receiveth. But 
now I see the Lord had his time to scourge and chasten me. The 
portion of some is to have their afflictions by drops, now one drop and 
then another: but the dregs of the Cup, the Wine of astonishment, 
like a sweeping rain that leaveth no food, did the Lord prepare to be 
my portion. Affliction I wanted, and affliction I had, full measure 
(I thought) pressed down and running over; yet I see, when God 
calls a Persen to any thing, and through never so many difficulties, 
yet he is fully able to carry them through and make them see, and 
say they have been gainers thereby. And I hope I can say in some 
measure, As David did, // is good for me that I have been afflicted. 
The Lord hath shewed me the vanity of these outward things. 
That they are the Vanity of vanities, and vexation of spirit; that they 
are but a shadow, a blast, a bubble, and things of no continuance. 
That we must rely on God himself, and our whole dependance must 



INCREASE MATHER 63 

be upon him. If trouble from smallar matters begin to arise in me, 
I have something at hand to check my self with, and say, why am 
I troubled ? It was but the other day, that if I had had the world, 
I would have given it for my freedom, or to have been a Servant to 
a Christian. I have learned to look beyond present and smaller 
troubles, and to be quieted under them, as Moses said, Exod. 14. 13. 
Stand still and see the salvation of the Lord. 



INCREASE MATHER 

FROM 

AN ESSAY FOR THE RECORDING OF ILLUSTRIOUS 
PROVIDENCES 

A BEWITCHED HOUSE 

As there have been several Persons vexed with evil Spirits, so 
divers Houses have been wofully Haunted by them. In the Year 
1679, the House of William Morse in Newberry in New-England, was 
strangely disquieted by a Damon. After those troubles began, he 
did by the Advice of Friends write down the particulars of those 
unusual Accidents. And the Account which he giveth thereof is 
as followeth; 

On December 3. In the night time, he and his Wife heard a 
noise upon the roof of their House, as if Sticks and Stones had been 
thrown against it with great violence; whereupon he rose out of his 
Bed but could see nothing. Locking the Doors fast, he returned to 
Bed again. About midnight they heard an Hog making a great noise 
in the House, so that the Man rose again, and found a great Hog in 
the house, the door being shut, but upon the opening of the door it 
ran out. 

On December 8. In the Morning, there were five great Stones and 
Bricks by an invisible hand thrown in at the west end of the house 
while the Mans Wife was making the Bed, the Bedstead was lifted 
up from the floor, and the Bedstaff flung out of the Window, and a 
Cat was hurled at her; a long Staff danced up and down in the Chim- 
ney; a burnt Brick, and a piece of a weather-board were thrown in 
at the Window: The Man at his going to Bed put out his Lamp, but 



64 AMERICAN PROSE 



in the Morning found that the Saveall of it was taken away, and yet it 
was unaccountably brought into its former place. On the same day, 
the long Staff but now spoken of, was hang'd up by a line, and swung 
to and fro, the Man's Wife laid it in the fire, but she could not hold 
it there, inasmuch as it would forcibly fly out; yet after much ado 
with joynt strength they made it to burn. A shingle flew from the 
Window, though no body near it, many sticks came in at the same 
place, only one of these was so scragged that it could enter the hole 
but a little way, whereupon the Man pusht it out, a great Rail like- 
wise was thrust in at the Window, so as to break the Glass. 

At another time an Iron Crook that was hanged on a Nail, 
violently flew up and down, also a Chair flew about, and at last 
lighted on the Table where Victuals stood ready for them to eat, 
and was likely to spoil all, only by a nimble catching they saved some 
of their Meal with the loss of the rest, and the overturning of their 
Table. 

People were sometimes Barricado'd out of doors, when as yet 
there was no body to do it: and a Chest was removed from place to 
place, no hand touching it. Their Keys being tied together, one 
was taken from the rest, & the remaining two would fly about making 
a loud noise by knocking against each other. But the greatest part 
of this Devils feats were his mischievous ones, wherein indeed he was 
sometimes Antick enough too, and therein the chief sufferers were, 
the Man and his Wife, and his Grand-Son. The Man especially had 
his share in these Diabolical Molestations. For one while they could 
not eat their Suppers quietly, but had the Ashes on the Hearth before 
their eyes thrown into their Victuals; yea, and upon their heads and 
Clothes, insomuch that they were forced up into their Chamber, and 
yet they had no rest there; for one of the Man's Shoes being left 
below, 'twas filled with Ashes and Coals, and thrown up after them. 
Their Light was beaten out, and they being laid in their Bed with their 
little Boy between them, a great stone (from the Floor of the Loft) 
weighing above three pounds was thrown upon the mans stomach, 
and he turning it down upon the floor, it was once more thrown upon 
him. A Box, and a Board were likewise thrown upon them all. 
And a Bag of Hops was taken out of their Chest, wherewith they were 
beaten, till some of the Hops were scattered on the floor, where the 
Bag was then laid, and left. 



INCREASE MATHER 65 

In another Evening, when they sat by the fire, the Ashes were 
so whirled at them, that they could neither eat their Meat, nor 
endure the House. A Peel struck the Man in the face. An Apron 
hanging by the fire, was flung upon it, and singed before they 
could snatch it off. The Man being at Prayer with his Family, a 
Beesom gave him a blow on his head behind, and fell down before 
his face. 

On another day, when they were Winnowing of Barley, some 
hard dirt was thrown in, hitting the Man on the Head, and both the 
Man and his Wife on the back; and when they had made themselves 
clean, they essayed to fill their half Bushel but the foul Corn was in 
spite of them often cast in amongst the clean, and the Man being 
divers times thus abused was foiced to give over what he was 
about. 

On January 23 (in particular) the Man had an iron Pin twice 
thrown at him, and his Inkhorn was taken away from him while he 
was writing, and when by all his seeking it he could not find it, 
at last he saw it drop out of the Air, down by the fire: a piece of 
Leather was twice thrown at him; and a shoe was laid upon his 
shoulder, which he catching at, was suddenly rapt from him. An 
handful of Ashes was thrown at his face, and upon his clothes: and 
the shoe was then clapt upon his head, and upon it he clapt his hand, 
holding it so fast, that somewhat unseen pulled him with it backward 
on the floor. 

On the next day at night, as they were going to Bed, a lost Ladder 
was thrown against the Door, and their Light put out; and when 
the Man was a bed, he was beaten with an heavy pair of Leather 
Breeches, and pull'd by the Hair of his Head and Beard, Pinched 
and Scratched, and his Bed-board was taken away from him; yet 
more in the next night, when the Man was likewise a Bed, his Bed- 
board did rise out of its place, notwithstanding his putting forth all 
his strength to keep it in; one of his Awls wa[s] brought out of the 
next room into his Bed, and did prick him; the clothes wherewith he 
hoped to save his head from blows were violently pluckt from thence. 
Within a night or two after, the Man and his Wife received both of 
them a blow upon their heads, but it was so dark that they could not 
see the stone which gave it; the Man had his Cap pulled off from his 
head while he sat by the fire. 



66 AMERICAN PROSE 



The night following, they went to bed undressed, because of 
their late disturbances, and the Man, Wife, Boy, presently felt them- 
selves pricked, and upon search found in the Bed a Bodkin, a knitting 
Needle, and two sticks picked at both ends. He received also a great 
blow, as on his Thigh, so on his Face, which fetched blood: and while 
he was writing a Candlestick was twice thrown at him, and a great 
piece of Bark fiercely smote him, and a pail of Water turned up 
without hands. On the 28 of the mentioned Moneth, frozen clods 
of Cow-dung were divers times thrown at the man out of the house 
in which they were; his Wife went to milk the Cow, and received 
a blow on her head, and sitting down at her Milking-work had Cow- 
dung divers times thrown into her Pail, the Man tried to save the 
Milk, by holding a Piggin side-wayes under the Cowes belly, but 
the Dung would in for all, and the Milk was only made fit for Hogs. 
On that night ashes were thrown into the porridge which they had 
made ready for their Supper, so as that they could not eat it; Ashes 
were likewise often thrown into the Man's Eyes, as he sat by the fire. 
And an iron Hammer flying at him, gave him a great blow on his 
back; the Man's Wife going into the Cellar for Beer, a great iron 
Peel flew and fell after her through the trap-door of the Cellar; and 
going afterwards on the same Errand to the. same place, the door 
shut down upon her, and the Table came and lay upon the door, and 
the man was forced to remove it e're his Wife could be released from 
where she was; on the following day while he was Writing, a dish 
went out of its place, leapt into the pale, and cast Water upon the 
Man, his Paper, his Table, and disappointed his procedure in what 
he was about; his Cap jumpt off from his head, and on again, and 
the Pot-lid leapt off from the Pot into the Kettle on the fire. 

February 2. While he and his Boy were eating of Cheese, the 
pieces which he cut were wrested from them, but they were after- 
wards found upon the Table under an Apron, and a pair of Breeches: 
And also from the fire arose little sticks and Ashes, which flying 
upon the Man and his Boy, brought them into an uncomfortable 
pickle 

All this while the Devil did not use to appear in any visible shape, 
only they would think they had hold of the Hand that sometimes 
scratched them; but it would give them the slip. And once the 
Man was discernably beaten by a Fist, and an Hand got hold of his 



INCREASE MATHER 67 

Wrist which he saw, but could not catch; and the likeness of a 
Blackmore Child did appear from under the Rugg and Blanket, where 
the Man lay; and it would rise up, fall down, nod & slip under the 
clothes when they endeavoured to clasp it, never speaking any thing. 
Neither were there many Words spoken by Satan all this time, 
only once having put out their Light, they heard a scraping on the 
Boards, and then a Piping and Drumming on them, which was fol- 
lowed with a Voice, singing Revenge! Revenge! Sweet is Revenge! 
And they being well terrified with it, called upon God; the issue of 
which was, that suddenly with a mournful Note, there were six times 
over uttered such expressions as Alas! Alas! me knock no more! me 
knock no morel and now all ceased. 

PROBATION OF WITCHES BY COLD WATER 

There is another Case of Conscience which may here be enquired 
into, viz. Whether it be lawful to bind persons suspected for Witches, 
and so cast them into the Water, in order to making a discovery of their 
innocency or guiltiness; so as that if they keep above the Water, they 
shall be deemed as confederate with the Devil, but if they sink they are 
to be acquitted from the crime of Witchcraft. As for this way of pur- 
gation it cannot be denied but that some learned men have indulged 
it. King JAMES appro veth of it, in his Discourse of Witch-craft 
B. 3. Chap. 6. supposing that the water refuseth to receive Witches 
into its Bosom, because they have perfidiously violated their Cove- 
nant with God, confirmed by Water in Baptism. Kommannus and 
Scribonius do upon the same ground justifie this way of tryal. But 
a worthy Casuist of our own, giveth a judicious Reply to this sup- 
posal, viz. that all Water is not the Water of Baptism, but that only 
which is used in the very act of Baptism. Moreover, according to 
this notion the Proba would serve only for such persons as have been 
Baptized. Wierus and Bodinus have written against this Experi- 
ment. So hath Hemmingius; who saith, that it is both superstitious 
and ridiculous. Likewise, that Learned Physitian John Heumius 
has published a Treatise, which he calls, Responsum ad supremam 
curiam Hollandice, nullum esse cequcB innatationem lamiarum indicium. 
That Book I have not seen, but I find it mentioned in Meursius his 
Athence Batavce. Amongst English Authors, Dr. Cott hath endeav- 
oured to shew the unlawfulness of using such a practice. Also 



68 AMERICAN PROSE 



Mr. Perkins is so far from approving of this probation by cold water, 
as that he rather inclines to think that the persons who put it in 
practice are themselves after a sort practisers of Witch-craft. That 
most Learned, Judicious, and Holy Man, Gisbertus Voetius in his 
forementioned Exercitation de Magia, P. 573. endeavours to evince 
that the custom of trying Witches by casting them into the Water 
is unlawful, a Tempting of God, and indirect Magic. And that it is 
utterly unlawful, I am by the following Reasons, convinced: 

1. This practice has no Foundation in nature, nor in Scripture. 
If the Water will bear none but Witches, this must need proceed 
either from some natural or some supernatural cause. No natural 
cause is or can be assigned why the bodies of such persons should 
swim rather than of any other. The Bodies of Witches have not 
lost their natural Properties, they have weight in them as well as 
others. Moral changes and viceousness of mind, make no altera- 
tion as to these natural proprieties which are inseparable from the 
body. Whereas some pretend that the Bodies of Witches are pos- 
sessed with the Devil, and on that account are uncapable of sinking 
under the water; M alder us his reply is rational, viz. that the Allega- 
tion has no solidity in it, witness the Gadarens Hoggs, which were no 
sooner possessed with the Devil but they ran into the Water, and 
there perished. But if the experiment be supernatural, it must either 
be Divine or Diabolical. It is not divine; for the Scripture does no 
where appoint any such course to be taken to find out whether per- 
sons are in league with the Devil or no. It remains then that the 
experiment is Diabolical. If it be said, that the Devil has made a 
compact with Wizards, that they shall not be drowned, and by that 
means that Covenant is discovered; the Reply is, we may not in the 
least build upon the Devils word. By this Objection the matter is 
ultimately resolved into a Diabolical Faith. And shall that cast the 
scale, when the lives of men are concerned ? Suppose the Devil saith 
these persons are Witches, must the Judge therefore condemn them ? 

2. Experience hath proved this to be a fallacious way of trying 
Witches, therefore it ought not to be practised. Thereby guilty 
persons may happen to be acquitted, and the innocent to be con- 
demned. The Devil may have power to cause supernatation on the 
water in a person that never made any compact with him. And 
many times known and convicted Wizards have sunk under the 



INCREASE MATHER 69 

water when thrown thereon. In the Bohemian History mention is 
made of several Witches, who being tried by cold water were as much 
subject to submersion as any other persons. Delrio reports the like 
of another Witch. And Godelmannus speaks of six Witches in whom 
this way of trial failed. Malderus saith It has been known that the 
very same persons being often brought to this probation by Water, 
did at one time swim and another time sink; and this difference has 
sometimes hapned according to the different persons making the 
experiment upon them; in which respect one might with greater 
reason conclude that the persons who used the experiment were 
Witches, then that the persons tried were so. 

3. This way of purgation is to be accounted of, like other provo- 
cations or appeals to the Judgement of God, invented by men: such 
as Camp-fight, Explorations by hot water, &g. In former times it 
hath been customary (and I suppose tis so still among the Norwegians) 
that the suspected party was to put his hand into scalding water, 
and if he received no hurt thereby then he was reputed innocent; 
but if otherwise, judged as guilty. Also, the trial by fire Ordeal has 
been used in our Nation in times of Darkness. Thus Emma the 
Mother of King Edward the Confessor, was led barefoot and blind- 
fold over certain hot irons, and not hapning to touch any of them, 
was judged innocent of the crime which some suspected her as guilty 
of. And Kunegund Wife to the Emperour Henry II. being accused 
of Adultery, to clear her self, did in a great and honourable Assembly 
take up seven glowing irons one after another with her bare hand, 
and had no harm thereby. These bloody kind of Experiments are 
now generally banished out of the World. It is pity the Ordeal by 
cold water is not exploded with the other. 

4. This vulgar probation (as it useth to be called) was first taken 
up in times of Superstition, being (as before was hinted of other 
Magical Impostures) propagated from Pagans to Papists, who would 
(as may be gathered from Bernards 66 Serm. in Cantica) sometimes 
bring those that were under suspicion for Heresie unto their Purga- 
tion in this way. We know that our Ancestors, the old Pagan Saxons 
had amongst them four sorts of Ordeal (i.e. Trial or Judgement as the 
Saxon word signifies) whefeby when sufficient proof was wanting, 
they sought (according as the Prince of darkness had instructed them) 
to find out the truth concerning suspected persons, one of which 



70 AMERICAN PROSE 



Ordeals was this, the persons surmised to be guilty, having Cords 
tied under their Arms, were thrown with it into some River, to see 
whether they would sink or swim. So that this Probation was not 
originally confined to Witches, but others supposed to be Criminals 
were thus to be tried : but in some Countries they thought meet thus 
to examine none but those who have been suspected for familiarity 
with the Devil. That this custom was in its first rise superstitious 
is evident from the Ceremonies of old used about it. For the Proba 
is not canonical, except the person be cast into the Water with his 
right hand tied to his left foot. Also, by the Principle which some 
approvers of this Experiment alledge to confirm their fansies; their 
Principle is, Nihil quod per Necromantian fit, potest in aqua fallere 
aspectum intuentium. Hence William of Malmsbury, Lib. 2. P. 67. 
tells a fabulous Story (though he relates it not as such) of a Traveller 
in Italy that was by a Witch transformed into an Asse, but retaining 
his humane understanding would do such feats of activity, as one 
that had no more wit than an Asse could not do; so that he was sold 
for a great price; but breaking his Halter he ran into the Water, and 
thence was instantly unbewitched, and turned into a Man again. 
This is as true as Lucian's Relation about his own being by Witch- 
craft transformed into an Asse; and I suppose both are as true as that 
cold water will discover who are Witches. It is to be lamented, that 
Protestants should in these days of light, either practise or plead for 
so Superstitious an Invention, since Papists themselves have of 
later times been ashamed of it. Verstegan in his Antiquities, Lib. 
3. P. 53. speaking of the trials by Ordeal, and of this by cold water 
in particular, has these words; These aforesaid kinds of Ordeals, the 
Saxons long after their Christianity continued: but seeing they had their 
beginnings in Paganism and were not thought fit to be continued amongst 
Christians; at the last by a Decree of Pope Stephen 27". they were 
abolished. Thus he. Yea, this kind of trial by Water, was put 
down in Paris A. D. 1594. by the supream Court there. Some 
learned Papists have ingenuously acknowledged that such Probations 
are Superstitious. It is confessed that they are so by Tyrceus, Bins- 
feldius, Delrio, and by Malderus de magia, Tract. 10. Cap. 8. Dub. 
n. who saith, that they who shall practise this Superstition, and pass 
a judgement of Death upon any persons on this account, will (with- 
out repentance) be found guilty of Murder before God. 



COTTON MATHER 71 



COTTON MATHER 

FROM 

THE WONDERS OF THE INVISIBLE WORLD 

THE TRIAL OF BRIDGET BISHOP: ALIAS, OLIVER. 
AT THE COURT OF OYER AND TERMINER HELD AT SALEM. JUNE 2. 1 69 2. 

/. She was Indicted for Bewitching of several persons in the 
Neighbourhood, the Indictment being drawn up, according to the 
Form in such Cases Usual. And pleading, Not Guilty, there were 
brought in several persons, who had long undergone many kinds of 
Miseries, which were preternaturally Inflicted, and generally ascribed 
unto an horrible Witchcraft. There was little Occasion to prove the 
Witchcraft) it being Evident and Notorious to all Beholders. Now 
to fix the Witchcraft on the Prisoner at the Bar, the first thing used was, 
the Testimony of the Bewitched; whereof, several Testify 'd, That the 
Shape of the Prisoner did oftentimes very grievously pinch them, 
choak them, Bite them, & Afflict them; urging them to write their 
Names in a Book, which the said Spectre called, Ours. One of them 
did further Testify, that it was the Shape of this Prisoner, with 
another, which one Day took her from her Wheel, and carrying her 
to the River side, threatned there to Drown her, if she did not Sign 
to the Book mentioned: which yet she refused. Others of them did 
also Testify, that the said Shape, did in her Threats, brag to them, that 
she had been the Death of sundry persons, then by her Named; that 
she had Ridden a man, then likewise Named. Another Testify'd, 
the Apparition of Ghosts unto the Spectre of Bishop, crying out, You 
Murdered us! About the Truth whereof, there was in the matter of 
Fact, but too much Suspicion. 

II. It was Testify'd, That at the Examination of the Prisoner, 
before the Magistrates, the Bewitched were extreamly Tortured. If 
she did but cast her Eyes on them, they were presently struck down; 
and this in such a manner as there could be no Collusion in the Busi- 
ness. But upon the Touch of her Hand upon them, when they 
lay in their Swoons, they would immediately Revive; and not upon 
the Touch of any ones else. Moreover, upon some Special Actions 
of her Body, as the shaking of her Head, or the Turning of her Eyes, 
they presently and painfully fell into the like postures. And many 



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of the like Accidents now fell out, while she was at the Bar. One 
at the same time testifying, That she said, She could not be Troubled 
to see the Afflicted thus Tormented. 

III. There was Testimony likewise brought in, that a man 
striking once at the place, where a Bewitched person said, the Shape 
of this Bishop stood, the Bewitched cryed out, that he had Tore her 
Coat, in the place then particularly specif y'd; and the Womans Coat, 
was found to be Torn in that very place. 

IV. One Deliverance Hobbs, who had confessed her being a Witch, 
was now Tormented by the Spectres, for her Confession. And she 
now Testify'd, That this Bishop, tempted her to Sign the Book again, 
and to Deny what she had Confess'd. She affirmed, that it was the 
Shape of this Prisoner, which whipped her with Iron Rods, to compel 
her thereunto. And she affirmed, that this Bishop was at a General 
Meeting of the Witches, in a Field at Salem- Village and there partook 
of a Diabolical Sacrament, in Bread and Wine then Administred! 

V. To render it further Unquestionable, that the prisoner at the 
Bar, was the Person truly charged in THIS Witchcraft, there were 
produced many Evidences of OTHER Witchcrafts, by her perpetrated. 
For Instance, John Cook testify'd, that about five or six years ago, 
One morning, about Sun-Rise, he was in his Chamber, assaulted by 
the Shape of this prisoner: which Look'd on him, grin'd at him, and 
very much hurt him, with a Blow on the side of the Head: and that 
on the same day, about Noon, the same Shape walked in the Room 
where he was, and an Apple strangely flew out of his Hand, into the 
Lap of his mother, six or eight foot from him. 

VI. Samuel Gray, testify'd, That about fourteen years ago, he 
wak'd on a Night, & saw the Room where he lay, full of Light; & 
that he then saw plainly a Woman between the Cradle, and the Bed- 
side, which look'd upon him. He Rose, and it vanished; tho' he 
found the Doors all fast. Looking out at the Entry-Door, he saw 
the same Woman, in the same Garb again; and said, In Gods Name, 
what do you come for ? He went to Bed, and had the same Woman 
again assaulting him. The Child in the Cradle gave a great schreech, 
and the Woman Disappeared. It was long before the Child could 
be quieted; and tho' it were a very likely thriving Child, yet from this 
time it pined away, and after divers months dy'd in a sad Condition. 
He knew not Bishop, nor her Name; but when he saw her after 



COTTON MATHER 73 



this, he knew by her Countenance, and Apparrel, and all Circum- 
stances, that it was the Apparition of this Bishop, which had thus 
troubled him. 

VII. John Bly and his wife, testify'd, that he bought a sow of 
Edward Bishop, the Husband of the prisoner; and was to pay the 
price agreed, unto another person. This Prisoner being Angry that 
she was thus hindred from fingring the money, Quarrell'd with Bly. 
Soon after which the Sow, was taken with strange Fits; Jumping, 
Leaping, and knocking her head against the Fence, she seem'd Blind 
and Deaf, and would neither eat nor be suck'd. Whereupon a 
neighbour said, she believed the Creature was Over-Looked; & sundry 
other circumstances concurred, which made the Deponents Belive 
that Bishop had Bewitched it. 

VIII. Richard Coman testify'd, that eight years ago, as he lay 
Awake in his Bed, with a Light Burning in the Room, he was annoy'd 
with the Apparition of this Bishop, and of two more that were 
strangers to him; who came and oppressed him so that he could 
neither stir himself, nor wake any one else: and that he was the night 
after, molested again in the like manner; the said Bishop taking him 
by the Throat, and pulling him almost out of the Bed. His kinsman 
offered for this cause to lodge with him; and that Night, as they were 
Awake Discoursing together, this Coman was once more visited, 
by the Guests which had formerly been so troublesome; his kinsman 
being at the same time strook speechless and unable to move Hand 01 
Foot. He had laid his sword by him; which these unhappy spectres, 
did strive much to wrest from him; only he held too fast for them. 
He then grew able to call the People of his house; but altho' they 
heard him, yet they had not power to speak or stirr, until at last, 
one of the people crying out, what's the matter! the spectres all vanished. 

IX. Samuel Shattock testify'd, That in the Year 1680. this 
Bridget Bishop, often came to his house upon such frivolous and 
foolish errands, that they suspected she came indeed with a purpose 
of mischief. Presently whereupon his eldest child, which was of as 
promising Health & Sense, as any child of its Age, began to droop 
exceedingly; & the oftener that Bishop came to the House, the worse 
grew the Child. As the Child would be standing at the Door, he 
would be thrown and bruised against the stones, by an Invisible 
Hand, and in like sort knock his Face against the sides of the House, 



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and bruise it after a miserable manner. Afterwards this Bishop 
would bring him things to Dy, whereof he could not Imagine any use; 
and when she paid him a piece of Money, the Purse and Money were 
unaccountably conveyed out of a Lock'd box, and never seen more. 
The Child was immediately hereupon taken with terrible fits, whereof 
his Friends thought he would have dyed: indeed he did almost nothing 
but cry and Sleep for several Months together: and at length his 
understanding was utterly taken away. Among other Symptoms 
of an Inchantment upon him, one was, that there was a Board in the 
Garden, whereon he would walk; and all the invitations in the world 
could never fetch him off. About Seventeen or Eighteen years after, 
there came a Stranger to Shattocks House, who seeing the Child, said, 
This poor Child is Bewitched; and you have a Neighbour living not 
far of, who is a Witch. He added, Your Neighbour has had a jailing 
out with your Wife; and she said in her Heart, your Wife is a proud 
Woman, and she would bring down her Pride in this Child: He then 
Remembred, that Bishop had parted from his Wife in muttering and 
menacing Terms, a little before the Child was taken ill. The above- 
said Stranger would needs carry the Bewitched Boy with him, to 
Bishops House, on pretence of buying a pot of Cyder. The Woman 
Entertained him in furious manner; and flew also upon the Boy, 
scratching his Face till the Blood came, and saying, Thou Rogue, 
what ? dost thou bring this Fellow here to plague me ? Now it seems 
the man had said before he went, that he would fetch Blood of her. 
Ever after the Boy was follow'd with grievous Fits, which the Doctors 
themselves generally ascribed unto Wit[c]hcraft; and wherein he 
would be thrown still into the Fire or the Water, if he were not con- 
stantly look'd after; and it was verily believed that Bishop was the 
cause of it. 

X. John Louder testify'd, that upon some little controversy 
with Bishop about her fowles, going well to Bed, he did awake in the 
Night by moonlight, and did see clearly the likeness of this woman 
grievously oppressing him; in which miserable condition she held 
him unable to help him self, till near Day. He told Bishop of this; 
but she deny'd it, and threatned him, very much. Quickly after 
this, being at home on a Lords Day, with the doors shutt about him, 
he saw a Black Pig approach him; at which he going to kick, it 
vanished away. Immediately after, sitting down, he saw a Black 



COTTON MATHER 75 



thing Jump in at the Window, & come & stand before him. The 
Body, was like that of a Monkey, the Feet like a Cocks, but the Face 
much like a mans. He being so extreemly affrighted, that he could 
not speak; this Monster spoke to him, and said, / am a Messenger 
sent unto you, for I understand that you are in some Trouble of Mind, 
and if you will be ruled by me, you shall want for nothing in this world. 
Whereupon he endeavoured to clap his hands upon it; but he could 
feel no substance, and it jumped out of the window again; but 
immediately came in by the Porch, though the Doors were shut, and 
said, You had better take my Counsel! He then struck at it with a 
stick, but struck only the Groundsel, and broke the stick. The Arm 
with which he struck was presently Disenabled, and it vanished 
away. He presently went out at the Back-Door, and spyed, this 
Bishop, in her Orchard, going toward her House; but he had not 
power to set one foot forward unto her. Whereupon returning into 
the House, he was immediately accosted by the Monster he had 
seen before; which Goblin was now going to Fly at him: whereat 
he cry'd out, The whole Armour of God, be between me and you! So 
it sprang back, and flew over the Apple Tree; shaking many Apples 
off the Tree, in its flying over. At its Leap, it flung Dirt with its 
Feet, against the Stomach of the man; whereon he was then struck 
Dumb, and so continued for three Days together. Upon the pro- 
ducing of this Testimony, Bishop deny'd that she knew this Deponent : 
yet their two Orchards joined, and they had often had their Little 
Quarrels for some years together. 

XL William Stacy, Testifyed, that receiving Money of this 
Bishop, for work done by him, he was gone but a matter of Three 
Rods from her, and looking for his money, found it unaccountably 
gone from him. Some time after, Bishop asked him whether his 
Father would grind her grist for her? He demanded why? she 
Reply'd, Because Folks count me a witch. He answered, No Question, 
but he will grind it for you. Being then gone about six Rods from her, 
with a small Load in his Cart, suddenly the Off-wheel slump't and 
sunk down into an Hole upon plain ground, so that the Deponent, 
was forced to get help for the Recovering of the wheel. But stepping 
Back to look for the Hole which might give him this disaster, there 
was none at all to be found. Some time after, he was waked in the 
Night; but it seem'd as Light as Day, and he perfectly saw the shape 



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of this Bishop, in the Room, Troubling of him; but upon her going 
out, all was Dark again. He charg'd Bishop afterwards with it: and 
she deny'd it not; but was very angry. Quickly after, this Deponent 
having been threatned by Bishop, as he was in a dark Night going to 
the Barn, he was very suddenly taken or lifted from the ground, 
and thrown against a stone wall; After that, he was again hoisted 
up and thrown down a Bank, at the end of his House. After this 
again, passing by this Bishop, his Horse with a small load, striving 
to Draw, all his Gears flew to pieces, and the Cart fell down; and this 
deponent going then to lift a Bag of corn, of about two Bushels; could 
not budge it, with all his might. 

Many other pranks, of this Bishops, this deponent was Ready to 
testify. He also testify'd, that he verily Believed, the said Bishop, 
was the Instrument of his Daughter, Priscilla's Death; of which sus- 
picion, pregnant Reasons were assigned. 

XII. To Crown all, John Bly, and William Bly, Testify'd, That 
being Employ 'd by Bridget Bishop, to help take down the Cellar-wall, 
of the old House, wherein she formerly Lived, they did in Holes of the 
said old Wall, find several Poppets, made up of Rags, and Hogs 
Brussels, with Headless Pins in them, the points being outward. 
Whereof she could now give no Account unto the Court, that was 
Reasonable or Tolerable. 

XIII. One thing that made against the Prisoner was, her being 
evidently convicted of Gross Lying, in the Court, several Times, 
while she was making her Plea. But besides this, a Jury of Women, 
found a preternatural Teat upon her Body; but upon a second search, 
within Three or four Hours, there was no such thing to be seen. 
There was also an account of other people whom this woman had 
afflicted. And there might have been many more, if they had been 
enquired for. But there was no need of them. 

XIV. There was one very strange . thing more, with which the 
Court was newly Entertained. As this Woman was under a Guard, 
passing by the Great and Spacious Meeting-House of Salem, she gave 
a Look towards the House. And immediately a Damon Invisibly 
Entring the Meeting-house, Tore down a part of it; so that tho' 
there were no person to be seen there, yet the people at the Noise 
running in, found a Board, which was strongly fastned with several 
Nails, transported unto another quarter of the House. 



COTTON MATHER 77 



FROM 

MAGNALIA CHRISTI AMERICANA 

CAPTAIN PHIPS'S SEARCH FOR SUNKEN TREASURE 

§.4 Being thus of the True Temper, for doing of Great 

Things, he betakes himself to the Sea, the Right Scene for such 
Things; and upon Advice of a Spanish Wreck about the Bahama's, 
he took a Voyage thither; but with little more success, than what 
just served him a little to furnish him for a Voyage to England; 
whither he went in a Vessel, not much unlike that which the Dutch- 
men stamped on their First Coin, with these Words about it, Incertum 
quo Fata ferant. Having first informed himself that there was 
another Spanish Wreck, wherein was lost a mighty Treasure, hither- 
to undiscovered, he had a strong Impression upon his Mind that He 
must be the Discoverer; and he made such Representations of his 
Design at White-Hall, that by the Year 1683. he became the Captain 
of a King's Ship, and arrived at New-England Commander of the 
Algier-Rose, a Frigot of Eighteen Guns, and Ninety-Five Men. 

§. 5. To Relate all the Dangers through which he passed, both 
by Sea and Land, and all the Tiresome Trials of his Patience, as well as 
of his Courage, while Year after Year the most vexing Accidents 
imaginable delay'd the Success of his Design, it would even Tire the 
patience of the Reader: For very great was the Experiment that 
Captain Phips made of the Italian Observation, He that cann't suffer 
both Good and Evil, will never come to any great Preferment 

§. 6. So proper was his Behaviour, that the best Noble Men in the 
Kingdom now admitted him into their Conversation; but yet he was 
opposed by powerful Enemies, that Clogg'd his Affairs with such 
Demurrages, and such Disappointments, as would have wholly 
Discouraged his Designs, if his Patience had not been Invincible. He 
who can wait, hath what he desireth. This his Indefatigable Patience, 
with a proportionable Diligence, at length overcame the Difficulties 
that had been thrown in his way; and prevailing with the Duke of 
Albemarle, and some other Persons of Quality, to fit him out, he set 
Sail for the Fishing-Ground, which had been so well baited half an 
Hundred Years before: And as he had already discovered his Capacity 
for Business in many considerable Actions, he now added unto those 
Discoveries, by not only providing all, but also by inventing many of 



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the Instruments necessary to the prosecution of his intended Fishery. 
Captain Phips arriving with a Ship and a Tender at Port de la Plata, 
made a stout Canoo of a stately Cotton-Tree, so large as to carry 
Eight or Ten Oars, for the making of which Periaga (as they call it) he 
did, with the same industry that he did every thing else, employ his 
own Hand and Adse, and endure no little hardship, lying abroad 
in the Woods many Nights together. This Periaga, with the Tender, 
being Anchored at a place Convenient, the Periaga kept Busking to 
and again, but could only discover a Reef of Rising Shoals thereabouts, 
called, The Boilers, which Rising to be within Two or Three Foot of 
the Surface of the Sea, were yet so steep, that a Ship striking on them, 
would immediately sink down, who could say, how many Fathom 
into the Ocean? Here they could get no other Pay for their long 
peeping among the Boilers, but only such as caused them to think upon 
returning to their Captain with the bad News of their total Disap- 
pointment. Nevertheless, as they were upon the Return, one of the 
Men looking over the side of the Periaga, into the calm Water, he spied 
a Sea Feather, growing, as he judged, out of a Rock; whereupon they 
bad one of their Indians to Dive and fetch this Feather, that they might 
however carry home something with them, and make, at least, as fair a 
Triumph as Caligula's. The Diver bringing up the Feather, brought 
therewithal a surprizing Story, That he perceived a Number of Great 
Guns in the Watry World where he had found his Feather; the 
Report of which Great Guns exceedingly astonished the whole Com- 
pany; and at once turned their Despondencies for their ill success into 
Assurances, that they had now lit upon the true Spot of Ground which 
they had been looking for; and they were further confirmed in these 
Assurances, when upon further Diving, the Indian fetcht up a Sow, 
as they stil'd it, or a Lump of Silver, worth perhaps Two or Three 
Hundred Pounds. Upon this they prudently Buoy'd the place, that 
they might readily find it again; and they went back unto their 
Captain whom for some while they distressed with nothing but such 
Bad News, as they formerly thought they must have carried him: 
Nevertheless, they so slipt in the Sow of Silver on one side under the 
Table, where they were now sitting with the Captain, and hearing him 
express his Resolutions to wait still patiently upon the Providence of 
God under these Disappointments, that when he should look on one 
side, he might see that Odd Thing before him. At last he saw it; see- 



COTTON MATHER 79 



ing it, he cried out with some Agony, Why ? What is this ? Whence 
comes this? And then, with changed Countenances, they told him 
how, and where they got it: Then, said he, Thanks be to God! We are 
made', and so away they went, all hands to Work; wherein they had 
this one further piece of Remarkable Prosperity, that whereas if they 
had first fallen upon that part of the Spanish Wreck, where the Pieces 
of Eight had been stowed in Bags among the Ballast, they had seen a 
more laborious, and less enriching time of it: Now, most happily, 
they first fell upon that Room in the Wreck where the Bullion had been 
stored up; and they so prospered in this New Fishery, that in a little 
while they had, without the loss of any Man's Life, brought up Thirty 
Two Tuns of Silver; for it was now come to measuring of Silver by 
Tuns. Besides which, one Adderly of Providence, who had formerly 
been very helpful to Captain Phips in the Search of this Wreck, did 
upon former Agreement meet him now with a little Vessel here; and 
he, with his few hands, took up about Six Tuns of Silver; whereof 
nevertheless he made so little use, that in a Year or Two he Died at 
Bermudas, and as I have heard, he ran Distracted some while before 
he Died. Thus did there once again come into the Light of the Sun, 
a Treasure which had been half an Hundred Years groaning under 
the Waters: And in this time there was grown upon the Plate a Crust 
like Limestone, to the thickness of several Inches; which Crust 
being broken open by Irons contrived for that purpose, they knockt 
out whole Bushels of rusty Pieces of Eight which were grown there- 
into. Besides that incredible Treasure of Plate in various Forms, 
thus fetch'd up, from Seven or Eight Fathom under Water, there were 
vast Riches of Gold, and Pearls, and Jewels, which they also lit upon; 
and indeed, for a more Comprehensive Invoice, I must but summarily 
say, All that a Spanish Frigot uses to be enricht withal. Thus did they 
continue Fishing till their Provisions failing them, 'twas time to be 
gone; but before they went, Captain Phips caused Adderly and his 
Folk to swear, That they would none of them Discover the Place of 
the Wreck, or come to the Place any more till the next Year, when he 
expected again to be there himself. And it was also Remarkable, 
that though the Sows came up still so fast, that on the very last Day 
of their being there, they took up Twenty, yet it was afterwards 
found, that they had in a manner wholly cleared that Room of 
the Ship where those Massy things were Stowed. 



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THOMAS HOOKER 

§ 14. Returning into England in order to a further Voyage, he 
was quickly scented by the Purse van ts; who at length got so far up 
with him, as to knock at the Door of that very Chamber, where he 
was now discoursing with Mr. Stone; who was now become his 
designed Companion and Assistent for the New English Enterprize. 
Mr. Stone was at that Instant smoking of Tobacco; for which Mr. 
Hooker had been reproving him, as being then used by few Persons of 
Sobriety; being also of a sudden and pleasant Wit, he stept unto the 
Door, with his Pipe in his mouth, and such an Air of Speech and Look, 
as gave him some Credit with the Officer. The Officer demanded, 
Whether Mr. Hooker were not there ? Mr. Stone replied with a braving 
sort of Confidence, What Hooker ? Do you mean Hooker that liv'd once 
at Chelmsford! The Officer answered, Yes, He! Mr. Stone imme- 
diately, with a Diversion like that which once helped Athanasius, 
made this true Answer, // it be he you look for, I saw him about an Hour 
ago, at such an House in the Town; you had best hasten thither after him. 
The Officer took this for a sufficient Account, and went his way;, but 
Mr. Hooker, upon this Intimation, concealed himself more carefully 
and securely, till he went on Board, at the Downs, in the Year 1633, 
the Ship which brought him, and Mr. Cotton, and Mr. Stone to New- 
England: Where none but Mr. Stone was owned for a Preacher, at 
their first coming aboard; the other two delaying to take their Turns 
in the Publick Worship of the Ship, till they were got so far into 
the main ocean, that they might with Safety, discover who they 
were 

§ 16. Mr. Hooker and Mr. Cotton were, for their different Genius, 
the Luther and Melancthon of New England; at their Arrival unto 
which Country, Mr. Cotton settled with the Church of Boston, but 
Mr. Hooker with the Church of New-Town, having Mr. Stone for his 
Assistant. Inexpressible now was the Joy of Mr. Hooker, to find 
himself surrounded with his Friends, who were come over the Year 
before, to prepare for his Reception; with open Arms he embraced 
them, and uttered these words, Now I live, if you standfast in the Lord. 
But such multitudes flocked over to New-England after them, that 
the Plantation of New Town became to straight for them; and it was 
Mr. Hooker's Advice, that they should not incur the danger of a Sitna, 
or an Esek, where they might have a Rehoboth. Accordingly in the 



COTTON MATHER 8l 



Month of June 1636, they removed an Hundred Miles to the West- 
ward, with a purpose to settle upon the delightful Banks of Con- 
necticut River: And there were about an Hundred Persons in the first 
Company that made this Removal; who not being able to walk 
above Ten Miles a Day, took up near a Fortnight in the Journey; 
having no Pillows to take their Nightly Rest upon, but such as their 
Father Jacob found in the way to Padan-Aram. Here Mr. Hooker 
was the chief Instrument of beginning another Colony, as Mr. Cotton, 
whom he left behind him, was, of preserving and perfecting that 
Colony where he left him; for, indeed each of them were the Oracle of 
their several Colonies. 

§ 17. Tho' Mr. Hooker had thus removed from the Massachuset- 
Bay, yet he sometimes came down to visit the Churches in that Bay: 
But when ever he came, he was received with an Affection, like that 
which Paul found among the Galatians; yea, 'tis thought, that once 
there seemed some Intimation from Heaven, as if the good People had 
overdone in that Affection: For on May 26. 1639. Mr. Hooker being 
here to preach that Lord's Day in the Afternoon, his great Fame had 
gathered a vast Multitude of Hearers from several other Congrega- 
tions, and among the rest, the Governour himself, to be made Par- 
taker of his Ministry. But when he came to preach, he found himself 
so unaccountably at a loss, that after some shattered and broken 
Attempts to proceed, he made a full stop; saying to the Assembly, 
That every thing which he would have spoken, was taken both out of his 
Mouth, and out of his Mind also; wherefore he desired them to sing a 
Psalm, while he withdrew about half an Hour from them: Returning 
then to the Congregation, he preached a most admirable Sermon, 
wherein he held them for two Hours together in an extraordinary 
Strain both of Pertinency and Vivacity 

§ 20. That Reverend and Excellent Man, Mr. Whitfield, having 
spent many Years in studying of Books, did at length take two or 
three Years to study Men; and in pursuance of this Design, having 
acquainted himself with the most considerable Divines in England, 
at last he fell into the Acquaintance of Mr. Hooker; concerning whom, 
he afterwards gave this Testimony: 'That he had not thought there 
had been such a Man on Earth; a Man in whom there shone so many 
Excellencies, as were in this incomparable Hooker; a Man in whom 
Learning and Wisdom, were so tempered with Zeal, Holiness, and 



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Watchfulness.' And the same Observer having exactly Noted Mr. 
Hooker, made this Remark, and gave this Report more particularly of 
him, That he had the best Command of his own Spirit, which he ever saw 
in any Man whatever. For though he were a Man of a Cholerick 
Disposition, and had a mighty Vigour and Fervour of Spirit, which as 
occasion served, was wondrous useful unto him, yet he had ordinarily 
as much Government of his Choler, as a Man has of a Mastiff Dog in 
a Chain; he could let out his Dog, and pull in his Dog, as he pleased. 
And another that observed the Heroical Spirit and Courage, with' 
which this Great Man fulfilled his Ministry, gave this Account of 
him, He was a Person who while doing his Master's Work, would put a 
King in his Pocket 

JOHN ELIOT, APOSTLE TO THE INDIANS 

The Natives of the Country now Possessed by the New- 
Englanders, had been forlorn and wretched Heathen ever since their 
first herding here; and tho' we know not When or How those Indians 
first became Inhabitants of this mighty Continent, yet we may guess 
that probably the Devil decoy'd those miserable Salvages hither, 
in hopes that the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ would never come 
here to destroy or disturb his Absolute Empire over them. But our 
Eliot was in such ill Terms with the Devil, as to alarm him with sound- 
ing the Silver Trumpets of Heaven in his Territories, and make some 
Noble and Zealous Attempts towards outing him of his Ancient 
Possessions here. There were, I think, Twenty several Nations (if 
I may caU them so) of Indians upon that spot of Ground, which fell 
under the Influence of our Three United Colonies; and our Eliot was 
willing to rescue as many of them as he could, from that old usurping 
Landlord of America, who is by the Wrath of God, the Prince of this 
World 

The First Step which he judg'd necessary now to be taken by 
him, was to learn the Indian Language; for he saw them so stupid and 
senseless, that they would never do so much as enquire after the 
Religion of the Strangers now come into their Country, much less 
would they so far imitate us, as to leave off their beastly way of living, 
that they might be Partakers of any Spiritual Advantage by us: 
Unless we could first address them in a Language of their own. 
Behold, new Difficulties to be surmounted by our indefatigable Eliot! 
He hires a Native to teach him this exotick Language, and with a 



COTTON MATHER 83 



laborious Care and Skill, reduces it into a Grammar which afterwards 
he published. There is a Letter or two of our Alphabet, which the 
Indians never had in theirs; tho' there were enough of the Dog in 
their Temper, there can scarce be found an R in their Language; (any 
more than in the Language of the Chinese, or of the Greenlanders) 
save that the Indians to the Northward, who have a peculiar Dialect, 
pronounce an R where an N is pronounced by our Indians; but if their 
Alphabat be short, I am sure the Words composed of it are long enough 
to tire the Patience of any Scholar in the World; they are Sesquipe- 
dalia Verba, of which their Linguo is composed; one would think, 
they had been growing ever since Babel, unto the Dimensions to which 
they had now extended. For instance, if my Reader will count how 
many Letters there are in this one Word, Nummatchekodtantamooon- 
ganunnonash, when he has done, for his Reward I'll tell him, it signi- 
fies no more in English, than our Lusts; and if I were to translate, our 
Loves, it must be nothing shorter than Noowomantammooonkanunon- 
nash. Or, to give my Reader a longer Word than either of these, 
Kummogkodonattoottummooetiteaongannunnonash, is in English, Our 
Question: But I pray, Sir, count the Letters! Nor do we find in all 
this Language the least Affinity to, or Derivation from any European 
Speech that we are acquainted with. I know not what Thoughts it 
will produce in my Reader, when I inform him, that once finding that 
the Daemons in a possessed young Woman, understood the Latin and 
Greek and Hebrew Languages, my Curiosity led me to make Trial of 
this Indian Language, and the Daemons did seem as if they did not 
understand it. This tedious Language our Eliot (the Anagram of 
whose Name was TOILE) quickly became a Master of; he employ 'd 
a pregnant and witty Indian, who also spoke English well, for his 
Assistance in it; and compiling some Discourses by his Help, he 
would single out a Word, a Noun, a Verb, and pursue it through all 
its Variations: Having finished his Grammar, at the close he writes, 
Prayers and Pains thro' Faith in Christ Jesus will do any thing! And 
being by his Prayers and Pains thus furnished, he set himself in the 
Year 1646 to preach the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ, among these 
Desolate Outcasts. 

A BEWITCHED CHILD 

Four Children of John Goodwin in Boston, which had enjoy'd a 
Religious Education, and answer 'd it with a towardly Ingenuity: 



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Children indeed of an exemplary Temper and Carriage, and an 
Example to all about them for Piety, Honesty, and Industry. These 
were in the year 1688. arrested by a very stupendous Witchcraft 

It was the Eldest of these Children that fell chiefly under my own 
Observation : For I took her home to my own Family, partly out of 
compassion to her Parents, but chiefly, that I might be a critical Eye- 
Witness of things that would enable me to confute the Sadducism of 
this Debauch'd Age. Here she continu'd well for some Days; 
applying her self to Actions of Industry and Piety: But Nov. 20. 
1688. she cry'd out, Ah, they have found me out! and immediately she 
fell into her Fits; wherein we often observ'd, that she would cough 
up a Ball as big as a small Egg, into the side of her Wind pipe, that 
would near choak her, till by Stroaking and by Drinking it was again 
carry'd down. 

When I pray'd in the Room, first her Hands were with a strong, 
tho' not even Force, clapt upon her Ears: And when her Hands were 
by our Force pull'd away, she cry'd out, They make such a Noise, 
I cannot hear a Word! She complain'd that Glover's Chain was upon 
her Leg; and assaying to go, her Gate was exactly such as the chain' d 
Witch had before she dy'd. When her Tortures pass'd over, still 
Frolicks would succeed, wherein she would continue Hours, yea, Days 
together, talking perhaps never wickedly but always wittily byond her 
self: And at certain Provocations her Torments would renew upon 
her, till we had left off to Give them; yet she frequently told us in 
these Frolicks, That if she might but steal or be drunk, she should be well 
immediately. She told us, that she must go down to the bottom of our 
Well, (and we had much ado to hinder it) for they said there was Plate 
there, and they would bring her up safely again. 

We wonder 'd at this: For she had never heard of any Plate there; 
and we our selves, who had newly bought the House, were ignorant 
of it : but the former Owner of the House just then coming in, told 
us There had been Plate for many Years lost at the Bottom of the Well. 
Moreover, one singular Passion that frequently attended her, was this : 

An invisible Chain would be clapt about her, and she in much pain 
and Fear, cry out when [They] 1 began to put it on. Sometimes we 
could with our Hands knock it off, as it began to be fasten'd: But 
ordinarily, when it was on, she would be pull'd out of her Seat, with 

1 Throughout this account the brackets are those of the original edition. 



COTTON MATHER 85 



such Violence, towards the Fire, that it was as much as one or two of 
us could do to keep her out. Her Eyes were not brought to be per- 
pendicular to her Feet, when she rose out of her Seat, as the Mechan- 
ism of an humane Body requires in them that rise; but she was 
dragg'd wholly by other Hands. And if we stamp'd on the Hearth, 
just between her and the Fire, she scream'd out, That by jarring the 
Chain, we hurt her. 

I may add, that [They] put an unseen Rope, with a cruel Noose, 
about her Neck, whereby she was choak'd until she was black in the 
Face: And tho' it was got off before it had kill'd her; yet there were 
the Red Marks of it, and of a Finger and a Thumb near it, remaining 
to be seen for some while afterwards. Furthermore, not only upon 
her own looking into the Bible, but if any one else in the Room did it, 
wholly unknown to her, she would fall into unsufferable Torments. 

A Quaker's Book being brought her, she could quietly read whole 
Pages of it; only the Name of GOD and CHRIST, she still skipp'd 
over, being unable to pronounce it, except sometimes, stammering 
a Minute or two, or more upon it : And when we urg'd her to tell what 
the Word was that she miss'd, she would say, / must not speak it: 
They say I must not. You know what it is: 'Tis G, and 0, and D. 
But a Book against Quakerism [They] would not allow her to meddle 
with. Such Books, as it might have been profitable and edifying for 
her to read, and especially her Catechisms, if she did but offer to read 
a Line in them, she would be cast into hideous Convulsions, and be 
tost about the House like a Foot ball: But Books of Jest being shewn 
her, she could read them well enough, and have cunning Descants 
upon them. Popish Books [They] would not hinder her from reading; 
but [They] would from reading Books against Popery. A Book which 
pretends to prove That there are no Witches, was easily read by her; 
only the Name Devils and Witches might not be utter'd. A Book 
which proves That there are Witches, being exhibited unto her, she 
might not read it: And that Expression in the Story of Ann Cole, 
about running to the Rock, always threw her into sore Confusions. 

Divers of these Trials were made by many Witnesses: But I 
considering that there might be a Snare in it, put a seasonable Stop 
to this fanciful Business. Only I could not but be amaz'd at one 
thing: A certain Prayer-Book being brought her, she not only could 
read it very weU, but also did read a large Part of it over, calling it 



86 AMERICAN PROSE 



her Bible, and putting a more than ordinary Respect upon it. If 
she were going into her Tortures, at the Tender of this Book, she 
would recover her self to read it : Only when she came to the Lord's 
Prayer now and then occurring in that Book, she would have her 
Eyes put out; so that she must turn over a new Leaf, and then she 
could read again. Whereas also there are Scriptures in that Book, 
she could read them there: but if any shew'd her the very same 
Scriptures in the Bible it self, she should sooner die than read them: 
And she was likewise made unable to read the Psalms in an ancient 
Metre, which this Prayer-Book had in the same Volume with it. 

Besides these, there was another inexplicable Thing in her Con- 
dition. Ever now and then, an Invisible Horse would be brought 
unto her by those whom she only call'd [Them,] and [Her Company,] 
upon the Approach of which, her Eyes wou'd be still clos'd up: For 
(said she) They say I am a Tell-tale, and therefore they will not let me see 
them. Hereupon she would give a Spring as one mounting an Horse, 
and setling her self in a riding Posture, she would in her Chair be agi- 
tated, as one sometimes Ambling, sometimes Trotting, and sometimes 
Galloping very furiously. In these Motions we could not perceive 
that she was mov'd by the Stress of her Feet upon the Ground, for 
often she touch'd it not. When she had rode a Minute or two, 
she would seem to be at a Rendezvous with [Them] that were [Her 
Company,] and there she would maintain a Discourse with them, ask- 
ing them many Questions concerning her self [we gave her none of 
ours] and have Answers from them which indeed none but her self 
perceiv'd. Then would she return and inform us, How [They] did in- 
tend to handle her for a Day or two afterwards, and some other things that 
she inquir'd. Her Horse would sometimes throw her with much 
Violence; especially if any one stabb'd or cut the Air under her. But 
she would briskly mount again, and perform her Fantastick Journies, 
mostly in her Chair; but sometimes also she would be carry 'd from her 
Chair, out of one Room into another, very odly, in the Postures of a 
riding Woman. At length, she pretended, that her Horse could ride 
up the Stairs; and unto admiration she rode, (that is, was toss'd as 
one that rode) up the Stairs. There then stood open the Study of one 
belonging to the Family: Into which entring, she stood immediately 
on her Feet, and cry'd out, They are gone! They are gone! They say 
that they cannot, God won't let 'em come here! Adding a Reason 



COTTON MATHER 87 



for it, which the Owner of the Study thought more Kind than True. 
And she presently and perfectly came to her self, so that her whole Dis- 
course and Carriage was alter 'd unto the greatest measure of Sobriety; 
and she sate reading of the Bible and other good Books, for a good 
part of the Afternoon. Her Affairs calling her anon to go down 
again, the Dtzmons were in a quarter of a Minute as bad upon her as 
before; and her Horse was waiting for her. Some then to see whether 
there had not been a Fallacy in what had newly hapned, resolv'd for 
to have her up unto the Study, where she had been at ease before; 
but she was then so strangely distorted, that it was an extream Diffi- 
culty to drag her up stairs. The Damons would pull her out of the 
Peoples Hands, and make her heavier than perhaps Three of her self. 
With incredible Toil (tho' she kept screaming, They say I must not go 
in) She was pull'd in; where she was no sooner got, but she could stand 
on her Feet, and with an alter'd Note, say, Now I am well. 

She would be faint at first, and say, She felt something to go out of 
her! (the Noises whereof we sometimes heard, like those of a Mouse) 
but in a Minute or two she could apply her self to Devotion, and 
express her self with Discretion, as well as ever in her Life. 

To satisfie some Strangers, the Experiment was divers times with 
the same Success, repeated; until my Lothness to have any thing done 
like making a Charm of a Room, caus'd me to forbid the Repetition 
of it. But enough of this. The Ministers of Boston and Charlstown, 
kept another Day of Prayer with Fasting for Goodwin'?, afflicted 
Family: After which, the Children had a Sensible, but a Gradual 
Abatement of their Sorrows, until Perfect Ease was at length restor'd 
unto them. The young Woman dwelt at my House the rest of the 
Winter; having by a vertuous Conversation made her self enough wel- 
come to the Family. But e're long, I thought it convenient for me 
to entertain my Congregation with a Sermon on the memorable 
Providences wherein these Children had been concern'd, [afterwards 
publish'd.] When I had begun to study my Sermon, her Tormentors 
again seiz'd upon her, and manag'd her with a special Design, as was 
plain, to disturb me in what I was then about. 

In the worst of her Extravagancies formerly, she was more dutiful 
to my self than I had reason to expect: But now her whole Carriage 
to me was with a Sawciness, which I was not us'd any where to be 
treated withal. She would knock at my Study door, affirming That 



AMERICAN PROSE 



some below would be glad to see me; tho' there was none that ask'd for 
me: And when I chid her for telling what was false, her Answer was 
Mrs Mather is always glad to see you! She would call to me with 
numberless Impertinencies: And when I came down, she would throw 
things at me, tho' none of them could ever hurt me: And she would 
Hector me at a strange rate for something I was doing above, and 
threaten me with Mischief and Reproach that should revenge it. Few 
Tortures now attended her, but such as were provok'd. Her Frolicks 
were numberless; if we may call them hers. I was in Latin telling 
some young Gentlemen, That if I should bid her look to God, her 
Eyes would be put out: Upon which her Eyes were presently serv'd 
so. Perceiving that her Troublers understood Latin, some Trials 
were thereupon made whether they understood Greek and Hebrew, 
which it seems, they also did; but the Indian Languages they did 
seem not so well to understand. 

When we went unto prayer, the Dcemons would throw her on the 
Floor at the Feet of him that pray'd, where she would whistle^, and 
sing, and yell, to drown the Voice of the Prayer, and she would fetch 
Blows with her Fist, and Kicks with her Foot, at the Man that 
Pray'd: But still her Fist and Foot would always recoyl, when they 
came within an Inch or two of him, as if rebounding against a Wall : 
and then she would beg hard of other People to strike him, which (you 
may be sure) not being done, she cry'd out, He has wounded me in the 
Head. But before the Prayer was over, she would be laid for dead, 
wholly senseless, and (unto appearance) breathless, with her Belly 
swell'd like a Drum; And sometimes with croaking Noises in her. 
Thus wou'd she lie, most exactly with the Stiffness and Posture of one 
that had been two Days laid out for dead. Once lying thus, as he 
that was praying, was alluding to the Words of the Canaanitess, and 
saying, Lord, have mercy on a Daughter vex'd with a Devil, there came a 
big, but low Voice from her, in which the Spectators did not see her 
Mouth to move, There's two or three of us. When Prayer was ended, 
she would revive in a Minute or two, and continue as frolicksome as 
before. 

She thus continu'd until Saturday towards the Evening; when she 
assay'd with as nimble, and various, and pleasant an Application, as 
could easily be us'd, for to divert the young Folks in the Family from 
such Exercises, as it was proper to meet the Sabbath withal: But 



SAMUEL SEW ALL 89 



they refusing to be diverted, she fell fast asleep, and in two or three 
Hours wak'd perfectly her self, weeping bitterly to remember what 
had befallen her. When Christmas arriv'd, both she at my House, and 
her Sister at home, were by the Damons made very drunk, tho' we are 
fully satisfied they had no Strong Drink to make them so; nor would 
they willingly have been so, to have gain'd the World. When she 
began to feel her self Drunk, she complain'd, Oh! they say they will have 
me to keep Christmas with them. They will disgrace me, when they can 
do nothing else. And immediately the ridiculous Behaviours of one 
drunk, were with a wondrous Exactness represented in her Speaking, 
and Reeling and Spewing, and anon Sleeping, till she was well again. 
At last the Dcemons put her upon saying that she was dying, and 
the matter prov'd such, that we fear'd she really was; for she lay, 
she toss'd, she pull'd, just like one dying, and urg'd hard for some one 
to die with her, seeming loth to die alone. She argu'd concerning 
Death, with Paraphrases on the Thirty first Psalm, in Strains that 
quite amaz'd us: And concluded, that tho' she was loth to die, yet if 
God said she must, she must! Adding, that the Indians would quickly 
shed much Blood in the Countrey, and horrible Tragedies would be 
acted in the Land. Thus the Vexations of the Children ended. 

But after a while, they began again; and then one particular 
Minister taking a particular Compassion on the Family, set himself 
to serve them in the methods prescrib'd by our Lord Jesus Christ. 
Accordingly, the Lord being besought thrice in Three Days of Prayer, 
with Fasting on this occasion, the Family then saw their Deliverance 
perfected; and the Children afterwards all of them, not only approv'd 
themselves Devout Christians; but unto the Praise of God reckon'd 
these their Afflictions among the special Incentives of their Christianity. 



/ 



SAMUEL SEWALL 

FROM 

THE DIARY 



Dec. 20, [1676] Mrs. Usher lyes very sick of an Inflam- 
mation in the Throat, which began on Monday. Called at her 
House coming home, to tell Mr. Fosterling's Receipt, i. e, A Swallows 
Nest (the inside) stamped and applied to the throat outwardly 



9 o AMERICAN PROSE 



July 8, 1677. New Meeting House Mane: In Sermon time there 
came in a female Quaker, in a Canvas Frock, her hair disshevelled 
and loose like a Periwigg, her face as black as ink, led by two other 
Quakers, and two other followed. It occasioned the greatest and 
most amazing uproar that I ever saw. Isaiah I. 12, 14 

Friday May 22d. 1685, had a private Fast: the Magistrates of 
this town with their Wives here. Mr. Eliot prayed, Mr. Willard 
preached. I am afraid of Thy judgments — Text Mother gave. Mr. 
Allen prayed; cessation half an hour. Mr. Cotton Mather prayed; 
Mr. Mather preached Ps. 79, 9. Mr. Moodey prayed about an 
hour and half; Sung the 79th Psalm from the 8th to the End: dis- 
tributed some Biskets, and Beer, Cider, Wine. The Lord hear in 
Heaven his dwelling place 

Monday, July 6th An Indian was branded in Court and 

had a piece of his Ear cut off for Burglary 

Thorsday, Novr. 12 After, the Ministers of this Town 

Come to the Court and complain against a Dancing Master who seeks 
to set up here and hath mixt Dances, and his time of Meeting is 
Lecture-Day; and 'tis reported he should say that by one Play he 
could teach more Divinity than Mr. Willard or the Old Testament. 
Mr. Moodey said 'twas not a time for N.E. to dance. Mr. Mather 
struck at the Root, speaking against mixt Dances 

Friday, Augt. 20. [1686]. Read the 143, 144 Psalms mane, and 
Sam Read the 10th of Jeremiah. I was and am in great exercise 
about the Cross to be put into the Colours, and afraid if I should 
have a hand in 't whether it may not hinder my Entrance into the 
Holy Land 

Sabbath, Feb. 6. [1687]. Between § hour after 11. and £ hour 
after 12. at Noon, many Scores of great Guns fired at the Castle and 
Town, suppose upon account of the King's entring on the third year 

of his Reign This day the Lord's Supper was administered 

at the middle and North Meeting-Houses; the ratling of the Guns 
during almost all the time, gave them great disturbance. 'Twas 
never so in Boston before. 

Feb. 15, 1686/7. J os - Maylem carries a Cock at his back, with 
a Bell in 's hand, in the Main Street; several follow him blindfold, 
and under pretence of striking him or 's cock, with great cart-whips 
strike passengers, and make great disturbance 



SAMUEL SEW ALL 91 



Wednesday, May 30. [1688] Mr. Joseph Eliot here, says 

the two days wherein he buried his Wife and Son, were the best that 
ever he had in the world 

Friday, Oct. 5 About 9. night, Thomas, an Indian and 

very usefull Servant of Mr. Oliver, hang'd himself in the Brewhouse. 

Satterday, Oct. 6. The Coroner sat on him, having a Jury, 
and ordered his burial by the highway with a Stake through his 
Grave 

Monday, Oct. 22. Mr. Isaac Walker is buried. Bearers, Mr. 
James Taylor, Mr. Francis Burroughs, Capt. Tho. Savage, Mr. 
Simeon Stoddard, Mr. George Elleston, Mr. Saml. Checkly; Deacon 
Eliot and I led the young. widow, and had Scarfs and Gloves. The 
Lord fit me, that my Grave may be a Sweetening place for my Sin- 
polluted Body 

Sabbath, Jan, 12. [1689]. Richard Dumer, a flourishing youth of 
9 years old, dies of the Small Pocks. I tell Sam. of it and what need 
he had to prepare for Death, and therefore to endeavour really to 
pray when he said over the Lord's Prayer: He seem'd not much to 
mind, eating an Apple; but when he came to say, Our father, he 
burst out into a bitter Cry, and when I askt what was the matter 
and he could speak, he burst out into a bitter Cry and said he was 
afraid he should die. I pray'd with him, and read Scriptures com- 
forting against death, as, O death where is thy sting, &c. All things 
yours. Life and Immortality brought to light by Christ, &c. 'Twas 
at noon 

Sabbath-day, August the four and twentieth, 1690. I publish 
my little Daughter's name to be Judith, held her up for Mr. Willard 
to baptize her. She cried not at all, though a pretty deal of water 
was poured on her by Mr. Willard when He baptized her 

Sept. 20 My little Judith languishes and moans, ready 

to. die. 

Sabbath, Sept. 21. About 2 mane, I rise, read some Psalms and 
pray with my dear Daughter. Between 7. and 8. (Mr. Moodey 
preaches in the Forenoon) I call Mr. Willard, and he prays. Told 
Mr. Walter of her condition at the funeral, desiring him to give her 
a lift towards heaven. Mr. Baily sat with me in the Afternoon. 
I acquainted Him. Between 7. and 8. in the evening the child died, 
and I hope sleeps in Jesus 



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Augt. 19th, 1692 This day George Burrough, John 

Willard, Jno Procter, Martha Carrier and George Jacobs were 
executed at Salem, a very great number of Spectators being present. 
Mr. Cotton Mather was there, Mr. Sims, Hale, Noyes, Chiever &c. 
All of them said they were innocent, Carrier and all. Mr. Mather 
says they all died by a Righteous Sentence. Mr. Burrough by his 
Speech, Prayer, protestation of his Innocence, did much move 
unthinking persons, which occasions their speaking hardly concerning 
his being executed. 

Monday, Sept. 19, 1692. About noon, at Salem, Giles Corey 
was press'd to death for standing mute; much pains was used with 
him two days, one after another, by the Court and Capt. Gardner 
of Nantucket who had been of his acquaintance; but all in vain. 

Nov. 6. Joseph threw a knop of Brass and hit his Sister Betty 
on the forhead so as to make it bleed and swell; upon which, and 
for his playing at Prayer-time, and eating when Return Thanks, 
I whipd him pretty smartly. When I first went in (call'd by his 
Grandmother) he sought to shadow and hide himself from me behind 
the head of the Cradle: which gave me the sorrowfull remembrance 
of Adam's carriage. 

Fifth-day, May 7, 1696. Col. Shrimpton marries his Son to 
his wive's Sisters daughter, Elisabeth Richardson. All of the 
Council in Town were invited to the Wedding, and many others. 
Only I was not spoken to. As I was glad not to be there because the 
lawfullness of the intermarrying of Cousin-Germans is doubted; so 
it grieves me to be taken up in the Lips of Talkers, and to be in such 
a Condition that Col. Shrimpton shall be under a temptation in 
defence of Himself, to wound me; if any should happen to say, Why 
was not such a one here ? The Lord help me not to do, or neglect 
any thing that should prevent the dwelling of brethren together in 
unity. And, Oh most bountifull and Gracious God, who givest lib- 
erally and upbraidest not, admit me humbly to bespeak an Invitation 
to the Marriage of the Lamb, and let thy Grace with me and in me 
be sufficient for me in making my self Ready 

6th. day, Deer. 25, 1696. We bury our little daughter. In the 
chamber, Joseph in course reads Ecclesiastes 3d. a time to be born 
and a time to die — Elisabeth, Rev. 22. Hannah, the 38th Psalm. 
I speak to each, as God helped, to our mutual comfort I hope. I 



SAMUEL SEW ALL 93 



order'd Sam. to read the 102. Psalm. Elisha Cooke, Edw. Hutchin- 
son, John Baily, and Josia Willard bear my little daughter to the 
Tomb. 

Note. Twas wholly dry, and I went at noon to see in what order 
things were set; and there I was entertain'd with a view of, and 
converse with, the Coffins of my dear Father Hull, Mother Hull, 
Cousin Quinsey, and my Six Children: for the little posthumous 
was now took up and set in upon that that stands on John's: so are 
three, one upon another twice, on the bench at the end. My Mother 
ly's on a lower bench, at the end, with head to her Husband's head: 
and I order'd little Sarah to be set on her Grandmother's feet. 'Twas 
an awfull yet pleasing Treat; Having said, The Lord knows who shall 
be brought hether next, I came away. 

Mr. Willard pray'd with us the night before; I gave him a Ring 
worth about 20s. Sent the President one, who is sick of the Gout. 
He prayd with my little daughter. Mr. Oakes, the Physician, Major 
Townsend, Speaker, of whoes wife I was a Bearer, and was join'd 
with me in going to Albany and has been Civil and treated me 
several times. Left a Ring at Madam Cooper's for the Governour. 
Gave not one pair of Gloves save to the Bearers 

Copy of the Bill I put up on the Fast day; giving it to Mr. 
Willard as he pass'd by, and standing up at the reading of it, and 
bowing when finished; in the Afternoon. 

Samuel Sewall, sensible of the reiterated strokes of God upon 
himself and family; and being sensible, that as to the Guilt con- 
tracted upon the opening of the late Commission of Oyer and Ter- 
miner at Salem (to which the order for this Day relates) he is, upon 
many accounts, more concerned than any that he knows of, Desires 
to take the Blame and shame of it, Asking pardon of men, And 
especially desiring prayers that God, who has an Unlimited Authority, 
would pardon that sin and all other his sins; personal and Relative: 
And according to his infinite Benignity, and Sovereignty, Not 
Visit the sin of him, or of any other, upon himself or any of his, nor 
upon the Land: But that He would powerfully defend him against 
all Temptations to Sin, for the future; and vouchsafe him the effi- 
cacious, saving Conduct of his Word and Spirit. 

Sixth-day, Octr. 1. 1697. Jer. Balchar's sons came for us to go 
to the Island. My Wife, through Indisposition, could not goe: But 



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I carried Sam. Hannah, Elisa, Joseph, Mary and Jane Tapan: I 
prevail'd with Mr. Willard to goe, He carried Simon, Elisabeth, 
William, Margaret, and Elisa Tyng: Had a very comfortable Passage 
thither and home again; though against Tide: Had first Butter, 
Honey, Curds and Cream. For Dinner, very good Rost Lamb, 
Turkey, Fowls, Applepy. After Dinner sung the 121 Psalm. Note. 
A Glass of spirits my Wife sent stood upon a Joint-Stool which, 
Simon W. jogging, it fell down and broke all to shivers: I said twas 
a lively Emblem of our Fragility and Mortality. When came home 
met Capt Scottow led between two: He came to visit me and fell 
down and hurt himself; bruis'd his Nose, within a little of our 
House 

Second-day, Febr. 14. 1697/8 Col. Saml. Shrimpton was buried 
with Arms; Ten Companies, 8, Muddy River and Sconce: No 
Horse nor Trumpet: but a Horse led — Mr. Dyers, the Colonel's 
would not endure the cloathing: Mourning Coach also and Horses 
in Mourning: Scutcheon on their sides and Deaths heads on their 
foreheads: Coach stood by the way here and there and mov'd soli- 
tarily 

Third-Day, July, 25. 1699 When I came home Sam, 

Hannah and Joanna being gon to Dorchester with Madam Usher 
to the Lecture, I found the House empty and Lock'd. Taking the 
key I came in and made a shift to find a solitary Dinner of bak'd 
Pigeons and a piece of Cake. How happy I were, if I could once 
become wise as a Serpent and harmless as a Dove! .... 

Tuesday, June, 10th. [1701]. Having last night heard that 
Josiah Willard had cut off his hair (a very full head of hair) and put 
on a Wigg, I went to him this morning. Told his Mother what I 
came about, and she call'd him,. I enquired of him what Extremity 
had forced him to put off his own hair, and put on a Wigg? He 
answered, none at all. But said that his Hair was streight, and that 
it parted behinde. Seem'd to argue that men might as well shave 
their hair off their head, as off their face. I answered men were men 
before they had hair on their faces, (half of mankind have never 
any). God seems to have ordain'd our Hair as a Test, to see 
whether we can bring our minds to be content to be at his finding : 
or whether we would be our own Carvers, Lords, and come no more 
at Him. 



SAMUEL SEW ALL 95 



Octr. 20. Mr. Cotton Mather came to Mr. Wilkins's shop, and 
there talked very sharply against me as if I had used his father 
worse than a Neger; spake so loud that people in the street might 
hear him. Then went and told Sam, That one pleaded much for 
Negros, and he had used his father worse than a Negro, and told 
him that was his Father. I had read in the morn Mr. Dod's 
saying; Sanctified Afflictions are good Promotions. I found it now 
a cordial. And this caus'd me the rather to set under my Father 
and Mother's Epitaph, — Psal. 27.10 

Octr. 9. I sent Mr. Increase Mather a Hanch of very good 
Venison; I hope in that I did not treat him as a Negro 

Octobr. 22. 1701. I, with Major Walley and Capt. Saml Checkly, 
speak with Mr. Cotton Mather at Mr. Wilkins's. I expostulated 
with him from 1 Tim. 5.1. Rebuke not an elder. He said he had 
consider'd that: I told him of his book of the Law of Kindness for the 
Tongue, whether this were correspondent with that. Whether cor- 
respondent with Christ's Rule : He said, having spoken to me before 
there was no need to speak to me again; and so justified his reviling 
me behind my back. Charg'd the Council with Lying, Hypocrisy, 
Tricks, and I know not what all. I ask'd him if it were done with 
that Meekness as it should; answer'd, yes 

Thorsday, Octr. 23. Mr. Increase Mather said at Mr. Wilkins's, 
If I am a Servant of Jesus Christ, some great Judgment will fall on 
Capt. Sewall, or his family 

Second-Day; Jany. 24. 1703/4 I paid Capt. Belchar £8-15-0. 
Took 24s in my pocket, and gave my Wife the rest of my cash £4.3-8, 
and tell her she shall now keep the Cash; if I want I will borrow of 
her. She has a better faculty than I at managing Affairs: I will 
assist her; and will endeavour to live upon my Salary; will see what 
it will, doe. The Lord give his Blessing 

Feria Sexta, Junii, 30, 1704 After Dinner, about 3. p.m. 

I went to see the Execution Many were the people that saw 

upon Broughton's Hill. But when I came to see how the River 
was cover'd with People, I was amazed: Some say there were 100 
Boats. 150 Boats and Canoes, saith Cousin Moody of York-. He 
told them. Mr. Cotton Mather came with Capt. Quelch and six 
others for Execution from the Prison to Scarlet's Wharf, and from 
thence in the Boat to the place of Execution about the midway 



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between Hanson's point and Broughton's Warehouse. Mr. Bridge 
was there also. When the scaffold was hoisted to a due height, the 
seven Malefactors went up; Mr. Mather pray'd for them standing 
upon the Boat. Ropes were all fasten'd to the Gallows (save King, 
who was Repriev'd). When the Scaffold was let to sink, there was 
such a Screech of the Women that my wife heard it sitting in our 
Entry next the Orchard, and was much surprised at it ; yet the wind 
was sou-west. Our house is a full mile from the place 

Feria septima, Apr. 3. [1708]. I went to Cous. Dumer's to see 
his News-Letter: while I was there Mr. Nathl Henchman came in 
with his Flaxen Wigg; I wish'd him Joy, i.e. of his Wedding. I could 
not observe that he said a Word to me; and generally he turn'd his 
back upon me, when none were in the room but he and I. This is 
the Second time I have spoken to him, in vain, as to any Answer 
from him. First was upon the death of his Wife, I cross'd the way 
near our house, and ask'd him how he did: He only shew'd his 
Teeth 

Augt. 26. Mr. Henry Flint, in the way from Lecture came to me 
and mention'd my Letter, and would have discoursed about it in the 
Street: I prevail'd with him to come and dine with me, and after 
that I and he discours'd alone. 

He argued that saying Saint Luke was an indifferent thing; and 
twas commonly used; and therefore, he might use it. Mr. Brattle 
used it. I argued that 'twas not Scriptural; that twas absurd and 
partial to saint Matthew &c. and Not to say Saint Moses, Saint 
Samuel &c. And if we said Saint we must goe thorough, and keep 
the Holy-days appointed for them, and turn'd to the Order in the 
Common-Prayer Book 

April, 30. [17 10] Note. Last night the Rudder of Capt. 

Rose's Ship was cut; The reason was Capt. Belchar's sending of her 
away Laden with Wheat in this time when Wheat is so dear. 

Second-day, May, 1, 17 10. Fourty or fifty Men get together 
and seek some body to head them to hale Capt. Roses Ship ashoar: 
but they were dissuaded by several sober Men to desist, which 
they did 

Octobr. 22. [1713]. I go to Salem, visit Mrs. Epes, Col. Hathorne. 
See Mr. Noyes marry Mr. Aaron Porter and Mrs. Susan Sewall, at 
my Brother's. Was a pretty deal of Company present; Mr. Hirst 



SAMUEL SEW ALL 97 



and wife, Mr. Blower, Mr. Prescot, Mr. Tuft Senr. and junr, Madam 
Leverett, Foxcroft, Goff, Kitchen; Mr. Samuel Porter, Father of 
the Bridegroom, I should have said before. Many young Gentle- 
men and Gentlewomen. Mr. Noyes made a Speech, said Love was 
the Sugar to sweeten every Condition in the married Relation. 
Pray'd once. Did all very well. After the Sack-Posset, &c. Sung 
the 45th. Psalm from the 8th verse to the end, five staves. I set it 
to Windsor Tune. I had a very good Turky-Leather Psalm-Book 
which I look'd in while Mr. Noyes Read: and then I gave it to the 
Bridegroom saying, "I give you this Psalm-Book in order to your 
perpetuating this Song: and I would have you pray that it may be 
an Introduction to our Singing with the Choir above." .... 

April, 1. [1719]. Midweek. Col. Townsend and Mr. Wood dine 
with me. In the morning I dehorted Sam. Hirst and Grindal Raw- 
son from playing Idle Tricks because 'twas first of April; They were 
the greatest fools that did so. N.E. Men came hither to avoid anni- 
versary days, the keeping of them, such as the 25th of Deer. How 
displeasing must it be to God, the giver of our Time, to keep anni- 
versary days to play the fool with ourselves and others 

8r. 1. [1720]. Satterday, I dine at Mr. Stoddard's: from thence 
I went to Madam Winthrop's just at 3. Spake to her, saying, my 
loving wife died so soon and suddenly, 'twas hardly convenient for 
me to think of Marrying again; however I came to this Resolution, 
that I would not make my Court to any person without first Con- 
sulting with her. Had a pleasant discourse about 7 Single persons 
sitting in the Fore-seat 7r. 29th, viz. Madm Rebekah Dudley, 
Catharine Winthrop, Bridget Usher, Deliverance Legg, Rebekah 
Loyd, Lydia Colman, Elizabeth Bellingham. She propounded one 
and another for me; but none would do, said Mrs. Loyd was about 
her Age. 

Octobr. 3. 2. Waited on Madam Winthrop again; 'twas a little 
while before she came in. Her daughter Noyes being there alone 
with me, I said, I hoped my Waiting on her Mother would not be 
disagreeable to her. She answer'd she should not be against that 

that might be for her comfort By and by in came Mr. Airs, 

Chaplain of the Castle, and hang'd up his Hat, which I was a little 
startled at, it seeming as if he was to lodge there. At last Madam 
Winthrop came too. After a considerable time, I went up to her and 



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said, if it might not be inconvenient I desired to speak with her. 
She assented, and spake of going into another Room; but Mr. Airs 
and Mrs. Noyes presently rose up, and went out, leaving us there 
alone. Then I usher'd in Discourse from the names in the Fore- 
seat; at last I pray'd that Katharine might be the person assign'd 
for me. She instantly took it up in the way of Denyal, as if she had 
catch'd at an Opportunity to do it, saying she could not do it before 
she was asked. Said that was her mind unless she should Change 
it, which she believed she should not; could not leave her Children. 
I express'd my Sorrow that she should do it so Speedily, pray'd her 
Consideration, and ask'd her when I should wait on her agen. She 
setting no time, I mention'd that day Sennight. Gave her Mr. 
Willard's Fountain open'd with the little print and verses; saying, 
I hop'd if we did well read that book, we should meet together here- 
after, if we did not now. She took the Book and put in her Pocket. 

Took Leave 

8r. 6th. A little after 6. p.m. I went to Madam Winthrop's. 
She was not within. I gave Sarah Chickering the Maid 2s., Juno, 
who brought in wood, is. Afterward the Nurse came in, I gave her 
i8d, having no other small Bill. After awhile Dr. Noyes came in 
with his Mother; and quickly after his wife came in: They sat 
talking, I think till eight a-clock. I said I fear'd I might be some 
Interruption to their Business: Dr. Noyes reply'd pleasantly: He 
fear'd they might be an Interruption to me, and went away. Madam 
seem'd to harp upon the same string. Must take care of her Children; 
could not leave that House and Neighbourhood where she had dwelt 
so long. I told her she might doe her children as much or more good 
by bestowing what she laid out in Hous-keeping, upon them. Said 
her Son would be of Age the 7th of August. I said it might be incon- 
venient for her to dwell with her Daughter-in-Law, who must be 
Mistress of the House. I gave her a piece of Mr. Belcher's Cake 
and Ginger-Bread wrapped up in a clean sheet of Paper; told her of 
her Father's kindness to me when Treasurer, and I Constable. My 
Daughter Judith was gon from me and I was more lonesom — might 
help to forward one another in our Journey to Canaan. — Mr. Eyre 
came within the door; I saluted him, ask'd how Mr. Clark did, and 
he went away. I took leave about 9 aclock. I told I came now to 
refresh her Memory as to Monday-night ; said she had not forgot it. 



SAMUEL SEW ALL 99 



In discourse with her, I ask'd leave to speak with her Sister; I meant 
to gain Madm Mico's favour to persuade her Sister. She seem'd 
surpris'd and displeas'd, and said she was in the same condi- 
tion! .... 

8r. 10th In the Evening I visited Madam Winthrop, who 

treated me with a great deal of Curtesy; Wine, Marmalade 

8r. nth. I writ a few Lines to Madam Winthrop to this pur- 
pose: "Madam, These wait on you with Mr. Mayhew's Sermon, 
and Account of the state of the Indians on Martha's Vinyard. I 
thank you for your Unmerited Favours of yesterday; and hope to 
have the Happiness of Waiting on you to-morrow before Eight 
a-clock after Noon. I pray God to keep you, and give you a joyfull 
entrance upon the Two Hundred and twenty ninth year of Chris- 
topher Columbus his Discovery; and take Leave, who am, Madam, 
your humble Servt. S. S. 

Sent this by Deacon Green, who deliver'd it to Sarah Chicker- 
ing, her Mistress not being at home. 

8r. 12 At Madm Winthrop's Steps I took leave of 

Capt Hill, &c. 

Mrs. Anne Cotton came to door (twas before 8.) said Madam 
Winthrop was within, directed me into the little Room, where she 
was full of work behind a Stand; Mrs. Cotton came in and stood. 
Madam Winthrop pointed to her to set me a Chair. Madam Win- 
throp's Countenance was much changed from what 'twas on Monday, 
look'd dark and lowering. At last, the work, (black stuff or Silk) 
was taken away, I got my Chair in place, had some Converse, but 
very Cold and indifferent to what 'twas before. Ask'd her to acquit 
me of Rudeness if I drew off her Glove. Enquiring the reason, I told 
her twas great odds between handling a dead Goat, and a living Lady. 
Got it off. I told her I had one Petition to ask of her, that was, that 
she would take off the Negative she laid on me the third of October; 
She readily answer'd she could not, and enlarg'd upon it; She told 
me of it so soon as she could; could not leave her house, children, 
neighbours, business. I told her she might do som Good to help and 
support me. Mentioning Mrs. Gookin, Nath, the widow Weld was 
spoken of; said I had visited Mrs. Denison. I told her Yes! After- 
ward I said, If after a first and second Vagary she would Accept of 
me returning, Her Victorious Kindness and Good Will would be very 



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Obliging. She thank'd me for my Book, (Mr. Mayhew's Sermon), 
But said not a word of the Letter. When she insisted on the Nega- 
tive, I pray'd there might be no more Thunder and Lightening, I 
should not sleep all night. I gave her Dr. Preston, The Church's 
Marriage and the Church's Carriage, which cost me 6s at the Sale. 
The door standing open, Mr. Airs came in, hung up his Hat, and sat 
down. After awhile, Madam Winthrop moving, he went out. Jno 
Eyre look'd in, I said How do ye, or, your servant Mr. Eyre: but 
heard no word from him. Sarah fill'd a Glass of Wine, she drank to 
me, I to her, She sent Juno home with me with a good Lantern, 
I gave her 6d. and bid her thank her Mistress. In some of our Dis- 
course, I told her I had rather go to the Stone-House adjoining to her, 
than to come to her against her mind. Told her the reason why I 
came every other night was lest I should drink too deep draughts of 
Pleasure. She had talk'd of Canary, her kisses were to me better 
than the best Canary. Explain'd the expression Concerning Colum- 
bus 

8r. 17 In the Evening I visited Madam Winthrop, who 

Treated me Courteously but not in Clean Linen as sometimes. She 
said, she did not know whether I would come again, or no. I ask'd 
her how she could so impute inconstancy to me. (I had not visited 
her since Wednesday night being unable to get over the Indisposition 
received by the Treatment received that night, and / must in it 
seem'd to sound like a made piece of Formality.) Gave her this 
day's Gazett 

8r. 19. . Midweek, Visited Madam Winthrop; Sarah told me she 
was at Mr. Walley's, would not come home till late. I gave her 
Hannah 3 oranges with her Duty, not knowing whether I should find 
her or no. Was ready to go home: but said if I knew she was there, 
I would go thither. Sarah seem'd to speak with pretty good Cour- 
age, She would be there. I went and found her there, with Mr. Walley 
and his wife in the little Room below. At 7 a-clock I mentioned 
going home; at 8. 1 put on my Coat, and quickly waited on her home. 
She found occasion to speak loud to the servant, as if she had a mind 
to be known. Was Courteous to me; but took occasion to speak 
pretty earnestly about my keeping a Coach: I said 'twould cost £100. 
per annum: she said twould cost but £40. Spake much against 
John Winthrop, his false-heartedness. Mr. Eyre came in and sat 



SAMUEL SEW ALL ioi 



awhile; I offer 'd him Dr. Incr. Mather's Sermons, whereof Mr. 
Appleton's Ordination Sermon was one; said he had them already. 
I said I would give him another. Exit. Came away somewhat 
late. 

8r. 20 Madam Winthrop not being at Lecture, I went 

thither first; found her very Serene with her daughter Noyes, Mrs. 
Dering, and the widow Shipreev sitting at a little Table, she in her 
arm'd Chair. She drank to me, and I to Mrs. Noyes. After awhile 
pray'd the favour to speak with her. She took one of the candles, 
and went into the best Room, clos'd the shutters, sat down upon the 
Couch. She told me Madam Usher had been there, and said the 
Coach must be set on Wheels, and not by Rusting. She spake som- 
thing of my needing a Wigg. Ask'd me what her Sister said to me. 
I told her, She said, If her Sister were for it, She would not hinder it. 
But I told her, she did not say she would be glad to have me for her 
brother. Said, I shall keep you in the Cold, and asked her if she would 
be within to morrow night, for we had had but a running Feat. 
She said she could not tell whether she should, or no. I took leave. 
As were drinking at the Governour's, he said: In England the 
Ladies minded little more than that they might have Money, and 
Coaches to ride in. I said, And New-England brooks its Name. 
At which Mr. Dudley smiled. Govr said they were not quite so 
bad here. 

8r. 21. Friday, My Son, the Minister, came to me p.m. by 
appointment and we pray one for another in the Old Chamber; 
more especially respecting my Courtship. About 6. a-clock I go 
to Madam Winthrop's; Sarah told me her Mistress was gon out, but 
did not tell me whither she went. She presently order'd me a Fire; 
so I went in, having Dr. Sibb's Bowels with me to read. I read the 
two first Sermons, still no body came in: at last about 9. a-clock 
Mr. Jno Eyre came in; I took the opportunity to say to him as I had 
done to Mrs. Noyes before, that I hoped my Visiting his Mother 
would not be disagreeable to him; He answered me with much 
Respect. When twas after 9. a-clock He of himself said he would 
go and call her, she was but at one of his Brothers: A while after 
I heard Madam Winthrop's voice, enquiring somthing about John. 
After a good while and Clapping the Garden door twice or thrice, 
she came in. I mention'd somthing of the lateness; she banter'd 



AMERICAN PROSE 



me, and said I was later. She receiv'd me Courteously. I ask'd 
when our proceedings should be made publick: She said They were 
like to be no more publick than they were already. Offer'd me no 
Wine that I remember. I rose up at 1 1 a-clock to come away, saying 
I would put on my Coat, She offer'd not to help me. I pray'd her 
that Juno might light me home, she open'd the Shutter, and said 
twas pretty light abroad ; Juno was weary and gon to bed. So I came 
home by Star-light as well as I could. At my first coming in, I gave 
Sarah five shillings. I writ Mr. Eyre his Name in his book with the 
date Octobr. 21. 1720. It cost me 8s. Jehovah jireh! Madam told 
me she had visited M. Mico, Wendell, and Wm Clark of the South. 

Octobr. 22. Daughter Cooper visited me before my going out 
of Town, staid till about Sun set. I brought her going near as far as 
the Orange Tree. Coming back, near Leg's Corner, Little David 
Jeffries saw me, and looking upon me very lovingly, ask'd me if I 
was going to see his Grandmother? I said, Not to-night. Gave 
him a peny, and bid him present my Service to his Grandmother. 

Octobr. 24. I went in the Hackny Coach through the Common, 
stop'd at Madam Winthrop's (had told her I would take my departure 
from thence). Sarah came to the door with Katee in her Arms: 
but I did not think to take notice of the Child. Call'd her Mistress. 
I told her, being encourag'd by David Jeffries loving eyes, and sweet 
Words, I was come to enquire whether she could find in her heart to 
leave that House and Neighbourhood, and go and dwell with me at 
the South-end; I think she said softly, Not yet. I told her It did 
not ly in my Lands to keep a Coach. If I should, I should be in 
danger to be brought to keep company with her Neighbour Brooker, 
(he was a little before sent to prison for Debt). Told her I had an 
Antipathy against those who would pretend to give themselves; but 
nothing of their Estate. I would a proportion of my Estate with 
my self. And I suppos'd she would do so. As to a Perriwig, My 
best and greatest Friend, I could not possibly have a greater, began to 
find me with Hair before I was born, and had continued to do so ever 
since; and I could not find in my heart to go to another. She com- 
mended the book I gave her, Dr. Preston, the Church Marriage; 
quoted him saying 'twas inconvenient keeping out of a Fashion 
commonly used. I said the Time and Tide did circumscribe my 
Visit. She gave me a Dram of Black-Cherry Brandy, and gave me 



SAMUEL SEWALL 



a lump of the Sugar that was in it. She wish'd me a good Journy. 
I pray'd God to keep her, and came away. Had a very pleasant 
Journy to Salem 

Novr. 2. Midweek, went again, and found Mrs. Alden there, 
who quickly went out. Gave her about \ pound of Sugar Almonds, 
cost 3s per £. Carried them on Monday. She seem'd pleas'd with 
them, ask'd what they cost. Spake of giving her a Hundred pounds 
per annum if I dy'd before her. Ask'd her what sum she would give 
me, if she should dy first ? Said I would give her time to. Consider 
of it. She said she heard as if I had given all to my Children by 
Deeds of Gift. I told her 'twas a mistake, Point- Judith was mine 
&c. That in England, I own'd, my Father's desire was that it should 
go to my eldest Son; 'twas 2o£ per annum; she thought 'twas forty. 
I think when I seem'd to excuse pressing this, she seem'd to think 
twas best to speak of it; a long winter was coming on. Gave me 
a Glass or two of Canary. 

Novr. 4th. Friday, Went again about 7. a-clock; found there 
Mr. John Walley and his wife: sat discoursing pleasantly. I shew'd 
them Isaac Moses's Writing. Madam W. serv'd Comfeits to us. 
After a-while a Table was spread, and Supper was set. I urg'd Mr. 
Walley to Crave a Blessing; but he put it upon me. About 9. they 
went away. I ask'd Madam what fashioned Neck-lace I should 
present her with, She said, None at all. I ask'd her Whereabout 
we left off last time; mention'd. what I had offer'd to give her; 
Ask'd her what she would give me; She said she could not Change 
her Condition: She had said so from the beginning; could not be 
so far from her Children, the Lecture. Quoted the Apostle Paul 
affirming that a single Life was better than a Married. I answer'd 
That was for the present Distress. Said she had not pleasure in 
things of that nature as formerly: I said, you are the fitter to make 
me a Wife. If she held in that mind, I must go home and bewail my 
Rashness in making more haste than good Speed. However, con- 
sidering the Supper, I desired her to be within next Monday night, 
if we liv'd so long. Assented. She charg'd me with saying, that 
she must put away Juno, if she came to me: I utterly denyed it, 
it never came in my heart; yet she insisted upon it; saying it came 
in upon discourse about the Indian woman that obtained her Freedom 
this Court. About 10. I said I would not disturb the good orders 



104 AMERICAN PROSE 



of her House, and came away. She not seeming pleas'd with my 
Coming away. Spake to her about David Jeffries, had not seen him. 

Monday, Novr. 7th I went to Mad. Winthrop; found her 

rocking her little Katee in the Cradle. I excus'd my Coming so late 
(near Eight). She set me an arm'd Chair and Cusheon; and so the 
Cradle was between her arm'd Chair and mine. Gave her the rem- 
nant of my Almonds; She did not eat of them as before; but laid 
them away; I said I came to enquire whether she had alter 'd her 
mind since Friday, or remained of the same mind still. She said, 
Thereabouts. I told her I loved her, and was so fond as to think 
that she loved me: She said had a great respect for me. I told her, 
I had made her an offer, without asking any advice; she had so many 
to advise with, that twas a hindrance. The Fire was come to one 
short Brand besides the Block, which Brand was set up in end; at 
last it fell to pieces, and no Recruit was made: She gave me a Glass 
of Wine. I think I repeated again that I would go home and bewail 
my Rashness in making more haste than good Speed. I would 
endeavour to contain myself, and not go on to sollicit her to do that 
which she could not Consent to. Took leave of her. As came down 
the steps she bid me have a Care. Treated me Courteously. Told 
her she had enter'd the 4th year of her Widowhood. I had given 
her the News-Letter before: I did not bid her draw off her Glove as 
sometime I had done. Her Dress was not so clean as somtime it 
had been. Jehovah jireh! 

Midweek, <pr. 9th. Dine at Bro Stoddard's: were so kind as 
to enquire of me if they should invite M'm Winthrop; I answer'd 

No At night our Meeting was at the Widow Belknap's. 

Gave each one of the Meeting One of Mr. Homes's Sermons, 12 in all; 
She sent her servant home with me with a Lantern. Madam Win- 
throp's Shutters were open as I pass'd by 

Novr. nth. Went not to Mm. Winthrop's. This is the 2d 
Withdraw 

Novr. 14. Madam Winthrop visits my daughter Sewall with 
her Katee 

About the middle of Deer Madam Winthrop made a Treat for 
her Children; Mr. Sewall, Prince, Willoughby: I knew nothing of it ; 
but the same day abode in the Council Chamber for fear of the Rain, 
and din'd alone upon Kilby's Pyes and good Beer 



SARAH K. KNIGHT 105 



March, 5. [172 1]. Lord's Day, Serene, and good but very cold, 
yet had a comfortable opportunity to celebrate the Lord's Supper. 
Mr. Prince, p.m. preach'd a Funeral Sermon from Psal. 90. 10. 
Gave Capt. Hill a good Character. Just as I sat down in my Seat, 
one of my Fore-teeth in my under Jaw came out, and I put it in my 
pocket. This old servant and daughter of Musick leaving me, does 
thereby give me warning that I must shortly resign my Head: the 
Lord help me to do it cheerfully! 



SARAH K. KNIGHT 

FROM 

THE JOURNAL 

Monday, Octb'r. ye second, 1704. — About three o'clock after- 
noon, I begun my Journey from Boston to New-Haven; being about 
two Hundred Mile. My Kinsman, Capt. Robert Luist, waited on 
me as farr as Dedham, where I was to meet ye Western post. 

I vissitted the Reverd. Mr. Belcher, ye Minister of ye town, and 
tarried there till evening, in hopes ye post would come along. But 
he not coming, I resolved to go to Billingses where he used to lodg, 
being 12 miles further. But being ignorant of the way, Madm 
Billings, seing no persuasions of her good spouses or hers could pre- 
vail with me to Lodg there that night, Very kindly went wyth me to 
ye Tavern, where I hoped to get my guide, And desired the Hostess 
to inquire of her guests whether any of them would go with mee. But 
they being tyed by the Lipps to a pewter engine, scarcely allowed 
themselves time to say what clownish ***** 

[Here half a page of the MS. is gone.} 

* * * Pieces of eight, I told her no, I would not be accessary to such 
extortion. 

Then John shan't go, sais shee. No, indeed, shan't hee; And 
held forth at that rate a long time, that I began to fear I was got 
among the Quaking tribe, beleeving not a Limbertong'd sister among 
them could out do Madm. Hostes. 

Upon this, to my no small surprise, son John arrose, and gravely 
demanded what I would give him to go with me? Give you, sais 



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I, are you John? Yes, says he, for want of a Better; And behold! 
this John look't as old as my Host, and perhaps had bin a man in the 
last Century. Well, Mr. John, sais I, make your demands. Why, 
half a pss. of eight and a dram, sais John. I agreed, and gave him 
a Dram (now) in hand to bind the bargain. 

My hostess catechis'd John for going so cheep, saying his poor 
wife would break her heart ***** 

[Here another half page of the MS is gone.] 

His shade on his Hors resembled a Globe on a Gate post. His habitt, 
Hors and furniture, its looks and goings Incomparably answered the 
rest. 

Thus Jogging on with an easy pace, my Guide telling mee it 
was dangero's to Ride hard in the Night, (whch his horse had the 
the sence to avoid,) Hee entertained me with the Adventurs he had 
passed by late Rideing, and eminent Dangers he had escaped, so 
that, Remembring the Hero's in Parismus and the Knight of the 
Oracle, I didn't know but I had mett wth a Prince disguis'd. 

When we had Ridd about an how'r, wee come into a thick 
swamp, wch. by Reason of a great fogg, very much startled mee, 
it being now very Dark. But nothing dismay'd John: Hee had 
encountered a thousand and a thousand such Swamps, having 
a Universall Knowledge in the woods; and readily Answered all my 
inquiries wch. were not a few. 

In about an how'r, or something more, after we left the Swamp, 
we come to Billinges, where I was to Lodg. My Guide dismounted 
and very Complasantly help't me down and shewd the door, signing 
to me wth his hand to Go in; wch I Gladly did — But had not gone 
many steps into the Room, ere I was Interogated by a young Lady 
I understood afterwards was the Eldest daughter of the family, with 
these, or words to this purpose, (viz.) Law for mee — what in the 
world brings You here at this time a night ? — I never see a woman 
on the Rode so Dreadfull late, in all the days of my versall life. 
Who are You ? Where are You going ? I'me scar'd out of my witts 
— with much now of the same Kind. I stood aghast, Prepareing to 
reply, when in comes my Guide — to him Madam turn'd, Roreing 
out: Lawfull heart, John, is it You? — how de do! Where in the 
world are you going with this woman ? Who is she ? John made 



SARAH K. KNIGHT 107 



no Ansr. but sat down in the corner, fumbled out his black Junk, and 
saluted that instead of Debb; she then turned agen to mee and fell 
anew into her silly questions, without asking me to sitt down. 

I told her shee treated me very Rudely, and I did not think it 
my duty to answer her unmannerly Questions. But to get ridd of 
them, I told her I come there to have the post's company with me 
to-morrow on my Journey, &c. Miss star'd awhile, drew a chair, 
bid me sitt, And then run up stairs and putts on two or three Rings, 
(or else I had not seen them before,) and returning, sett herself just 
before me, showing the way to Reding, that I might see her Orna- 
ments, perhaps to gain the more respect. But her Granam's new 
Rung sow, had it appeared, would [have] affected me as much. 
I paid honest John wth money and dram according to contract, and 
Dismist him, and pray'd Miss to shew me where I must Lodg. Shee 
conducted me to a parlour in a little back Lento, wch was almost 
fill'd wth the bedsted, wch was so high that I was forced to climb on 
a chair to gitt up to ye wretched bed that lay on it; on wch having 
Stretcht my tired Limbs, and lay'd my head on a Sad-colourd pillow, 
I began to think on the transactions of ye past day. 

Tuesday, October ye third, about 8 in the morning, I with the 
Post proceeded forward without observing any thing remarkable; 
And about two, afternoon, Arrived at the Post's second stage, where 
the western Post mett him and exchanged Letters. Here, having 
called for something to eat, ye woman bro't in a Twisted thing like 
a cable, but something whiter; and laying it on the bord, tugg'd for 
life to bring it into a capacity to spread; wch having wth great 
pains accomplished, shee serv'd in a dish of Pork and Cabage, I 
suppose the remains of Dinner. The sause was of a deep Purple, 
wch I tho't was boil'd in her dye Kettle; the bread was Indian, and 
every thing on the Table service Agreeable to these. I, being 
hungry, gott a little down; but my stomach was soon cloy'd, and 
what cabbage I swallowed serv'd me for a Cudd the whole day after. 

Having here discharged the Ordnary for self and Guide, (as I 
understood was the custom,) About Three afternoon went on with 
my Third Guide, who Rode very hard; and having crossed Provi- 
dence Ferry, we come to a River wch they Generally Ride thro'. 
But I dare not venture; so the Post got a Ladd and Cannoo to carry 
me to tother side, and hee rid thro' and Led my hors. The Cannoo 



io8 AMERICAN PROSE 



was very small and shallow, so that when we were in she seem'd 
redy to take in water, which greatly terrified mee, and caused me to 
be very circumspect, sitting with my hands fast on each side, my 
eyes stedy, not daring so much as to lodg my tongue a hair's breadth 
more on one side of my mouth then tother, nor so much as think on 
Lott's wife, for a wry thought would have oversett our wherey: 
But was soon put out of this pain, by feeling the Cannoo on shore, 
wch I as soon almost saluted with my feet; and Rewarding my 
sculler, again mounted and made the best of our way forwards. 
The Rode here was very even and ye day pleasant, it being now near 
Sunsett. But the Post told mee we had neer 14 miles to Ride to the 
next Stage, (where we were to Lodg.) I askt him of the rest of the 
Rode, foreseeing wee must travail in the night. Hee told mee there 
was a bad River we were to Ride thro', wch was so very firce a hors 
could sometimes hardly stem it: But it was but narrow, and wee 
should soon be over. I cannot express The concern of mind this 
relation sett me in: no thoughts but those of the dang'ros River could 
entertain my Imagination, and they were as formidable as varios, 
still Tormenting me with blackest Ideas of my Approching fate — 
Sometimes seing my self drowning, otherwhiles drowned, and at the 
best like a holy Sister Just come out of a Spiritual Bath in dripping 
Garments. 

Now was the Glorious Luminary, wth his swift Coursers arrived 
at his Stage, leaving poor me wth the rest of this part of the lower 
world in darkness, with which wee were soon Surrounded. The only 
Glimering we now had was from the spangled Skies, Whose Imper- 
fect Reflections rendered every Object formidable. Each lifeless 
Trunk, with its shatter'd Limbs, appear'd an Armed Enymie; and 
every little stump like a Ravenous devourer. Nor could I so much 
as discern my Guide, when at any distance, which added to the terror. 

Thus, absolutely lost in Thought, and dying with the very 
thoughts of drowning, I come up wth the post, who I did not see till 
even with his Hors: he told mee he stopt for mee; and wee Rode 
on Very deliberatly a few paces, when we entred a Thickett of Trees 
and Shrubbs, and I perceived by the Hors's going, we were on the 
descent of a Hill, wch, as wee come neerer the bottom, 'twas totaly 
dark wth the Trees that surrounded it. But I knew by the Going 
of the Hors wee had entred the water, wch my Guide told mee was 



SARAH K. KNIGHT 109 



the hazzardos River he had told me off; and hee, Riding up close 
to my Side, Bid me not fear — we should be over Imediatly. I now 
ralyed all the Courage I was mistriss of, Knowing that I must either 
Venture my fate of drowning, or be left like ye Children in the 
wood. So, as the Post bid me, I gave Reins to my Nagg; and 
sitting as Stedy as Just before in the Cannoo, in a few minutes 
got safe to the other side, which hee told mee was the Narragansett 

country 

Being come to mr. Havens', I was very civilly Received, and 
courteously entertained, in a clean comfortable House; and the Good 
woman was very active in helping off my Riding clothes, and then 
ask't what I would eat. I told her I had some Chocolett, if shee 
would prepare it; which with the help of some Milk, and a little clean 
brass Kettle, she soon effected to my satisfaction. I then betook me 
to my Apartment, wch was a little Room parted from the Kitchen 
by a single bord partition; where, after I had noted the Occurrances 
of the past day, I went to bed, which, tho' pretty hard, Yet neet and 
handsome. But I could get no sleep, because of the Clamor of some 
of the Town tope-ers in next Room, Who were entred into a strong 
debate concerning ye Signifycation of the name of their Country, 
(viz.) Narraganset. One said it was named so by ye Indians, because 
there grew a Brier there, of a prodigious Highth and bigness, the like 
hardly ever known, called by the Indians Narragansett; And quotes 
an Indian of so Barberous a name for his Author, that I could not 
write it. His Antagonist Replyed no — It was from a Spring it had 
its name, wch hee well knew where it was, which was extreem cold 
in summer, and as Hott as could be imagined in the winter, which 
was much resorted too by the natives, and by them called Narra- 
gansett, (Hott and Cold,) and that was the original! of their places 
name — with a thousand Impertinances not worth notice, wch He 
utter'd with such a Roreing voice and Thundering blows with the 
fist of wickedness on the Table, that it peirced my very head. I 
heartily fretted, and wish't 'urn tongue tyed; but wth as little succes 
as a freind of mine once, who was (as shee said) kept a whole night 
awake, on a Jorny, by a country Left, and a Sergent, Insigne and 
a Deacon, contriving how to bring a triangle into a Square. They 
kept calling for tother Gill, wch while they were swallowing, was some 
Intermission; But presently, like Oyle to fire, encreased the flame. 



AMERICAN PROSE 



I set my Candle on a Chest by the bed side, and setting up, fell to 
my old way of composing my Resentments, in the following manner: 

I ask thy Aid, O Potent Rum! 

To Charm these wrangling Topers Dum. 

Thou hast their Giddy Brains possest — 

The man confounded wth the Beast- — 

And I, poor I, can get no rest. 

Intoxicate them with thy fumes: 

O still their Tongues till morning comes! 

And I know not but my wishes took effect; for the dispute soon 
ended wth 'tother Dram; and so Good night! 

Wedensday, Octobr 4th. About four in the morning, we set out 
for Kingston (for so was the Town called) with a french Docter in 
our company. Hee and ye Post put on very furiously, so that I 
could not keep up with them, only as now and then they'd stop till 
they see mee. This Rode was poorly furnished wth accommodations 
for Travellers, so that we were forced to ride 22 miles by the post's 
account but neerer thirty by mine, before wee could bait so much as our 
Horses, wch I exceedingly complained of. But the post encourag'd 
mee, by saying wee should be well accommodated anon at mr. Devills, 
a few miles further. But I questioned whether we ought to go to the 
Devil to be helpt out of affliction. However, like the rest of De- 
luded souls that post to ye Infernal derm, Wee made all posible 
speed to this Devil's Habitation; where alliting, in full assurance of 
good accommodation, wee were going in. But meeting his two 
daughters, as I suposed twins, they so neerly resembled each other, 
both in features and habit, and look't as old as the Divel himselfe, 
and quite as Ugly, We desired entertainm't, but could hardly get 
a word out of 'um, till with our Importunity, telling them our necesity, 
&c. they call'd the old Sophister, who was as sparing of his words as 
his daughters had bin, and no, or none, was the reply's hee made us 
to our demands. He differed only in this from the old fellow in 

to'ther Country: hee let us depart From hence we proceeded 

(about ten forenoon) through the Narragansett country, pretty 
Leisurely; and about one afternoon come to Paukataug River, wch 
was about two hundred paces over, and now very high, and no way 
over to to'ther side but this. I darid not venture to Ride thro, my 
courage at best in such cases but small, And now at the Lowest Ebb, 
by reason of my weary, very weary, hungry and uneasy Circurh- 



SARAH K. KNIGHT III 



stances. So takeing leave of my company, tho' wth no little Reluc- 
tance, that I could not proceed wth them on my Jorny, Stop at a little 
cottage Just by the River, to wait the Waters falling, wch the old 
man that lived there said would be in a little time, and he would 
conduct me safe over. This little Hutt was one of the wretchedest 
I ever saw a habitation for human creatures. It was suported 
with shores enclosed with Clapbords, laid on Lengthways, and so 
much asunder, that the Light come throu' every where; the doore 
tyed on wth a cord in ye place of hinges; The floor the bear earth; 
no windows but such as the thin covering afforded, nor any furniture 
but a Bedd wth a glass Bottle hanging at ye head on't; an earthan 
cupp, a small pewter Bason, A Bord wth sticks to stand on, instead 
of a table, and a block or two in ye corner instead of chairs. The 
family were the old man, his wife and two Children; aU and every 
part being the picture of poverty. Notwithstanding both the Hutt 
and its Inhabitance were very clean and tydee: to the crossing the 
Old Proverb, that bare walls make giddy hows-wifes. 

I Blest myselfe that I was not one of this misserable crew 
.... I had scarce done thinking, when an Indian-like Animal come 
to the door, on a creature very much like himselfe, in mien and feature, 
as well as Ragged cloathing; and having 'litt, makes an Awkerd 
Scratch wth his Indian shoo, and a Nodd, sitts on ye block, fumbles 
out his black Junk, dipps it in ye Ashes, and presents it piping hott 
to his muscheeto's, and fell to sucking like a calf, without speaking, 
for near a quarter of a hower. At length the old man said how do's 
Sarah do ? who I understood was the wretches wife, and Daughter 
to ye old man: he Replyed — as well as can be expected, &c. So 
I remembred the old say, and supposed I knew Sarah's case. Butt 
hee being, as I understood, going over the River, as ugly as hee was, 
I was glad to ask him to show me ye way to Saxtons, at Stoningtown; 
wch he promising, I ventur'd over wth the old mans assistance; who 
having rewarded to content, with my tattertailed guide, I Ridd on 
very slowly thro' Stoningtown, where the Rode was very Stony and 
uneven. I asked the fellow, as we went, divers questions of the 
place and way, &c. I being arrived at my country Saxtons, at 
Stonington, was very well accommodated both as to victuals and 
Lodging, the only Good of both I had found since my setting out. 
Here I heard there was an old man and his Daughter to come that 



112 AMERICAN PROSE 



way, bound to N. London; and being now destitute of a Guide, 
gladly waited for them, being in so good a harbour, and accordingly, 
Thirsday, Octobr ye 5th, about 3 in the afternoon, I sat forward with 
neighbour Polly and Jemima, a Girl about 18 Years old, who hee 
said he had been to fetch out of the Narragansetts, and said they had 
Rode thirty miles that day, on a sory lean Jade, wth only a Bagg 
under her for a pillion, which the poor Girl often complain'd was 
very uneasy 

Being safely arrived at the house of Mrs. Prentices in N. London, 
I treated neighbour Polly and daughter for their divirting company, 
and bid them farewell; and between nine and ten at night waited 
on the Revd Mr. Gurdon Saltonstall, minister of the town, who kindly 
Invited me to Stay that night at his house, where I was very hand- 
somely and plentifully treated and Lodg'd; and made good the Great 
Character I had before heard concerning him: viz. that hee was the 
most affable, courteous, Genero's and best of men. 

Friday, Octor 6th. I got up very early, in Order to hire somebody 
to go with mee to New Haven, being in Great parplexity at the 
thoughts of proceeding alone; which my most hospitable entertainer 
observing, himselfe went, and soon return'd wth a young Gentleman 
of the town, who he could confide in to Go with mee; and about eight 
this morning, wth Mr. Joshua Wheeler my new Guide, takeing leave 
of this worthy Gentleman, Wee advanced on towards Seabrook 

Saturday, Oct. 7th, we sett out early in the Morning, and being 
something unaquainted wth the way, having ask't it of some wee 
mett, they told us wee must Ride a mile or two and turne down a Lane 
on the Right hand; and by their Direction wee Rode on, but not 
Yet comeing to ye turning, we mett a Young fellow and ask't him 
how farr it was to the Lane which turn'd down towards Guilford. 
Hee said wee must Ride a little further, and turn down by the Corner 
of uncle Sams Lott. My Guide vented his Spleen at the Lubber; and 
we soon after came into the Rhode, and keeping still on, without any 
thing further Remarkabell, about two a clock afternoon we arrived at 
New Haven, where I was received with all Posible Respects and civility. 
Here I discharged Mr. Wheeler with a reward to his satisfaction, 
and took some time to rest after so long and toilsome a Journey; 
And Inform'd myselfe of the manners and customs of the place, and 
at the same time employed myselfe in the afair I went there upon. 



WILLIAM BYRD 113 



WILLIAM BYRD 1 

PROM 

HISTORY OF THE DIVIDING LINE 

[March 13, 1728.] Tis hardly credible how little the Bordering 
inhabitants were acquainted with this mighty Swamp, notwithstand- 
ing they had liv'd their whole lives within Smell of it. Yet, as great 
Strangers as they were to it, they pretended to be very exact in their 
Account of its Dimensions, and were positive it could not be above 
7 or 8 Miles wide, but knew no more of the Matter than Star-gazers 
know of the Distance of the Fixt Stars. At the Same time, they 
were Simple enough to amuse our Men with Idle Stories of the Lyons, 
Panthers and Alligators, they were like to encounter in that dreadful 
Place. 

In short, we saw plainly there was no Intelligence of this Terra 
Incognita to be got, but from our own Experience. For that Reason 
it was resolv'd to make the requisite Dispositions to enter it next 
Morning. We allotted every one of the Surveyors for this painful 
Enterprise, with 12 Men to attend them. Fewer than that cou'd 
not be employ'd in clearing the way, carrying the Chain, mark- 
ing the Trees, and bearing the necessary Bedding and Provi- 
sions. Nor wou'd the Commissioners themselves have Spared their 
Persons on this Occasion, but for fear of adding to the poor men's 
Burthen, while they were certain they cou'd add nothing to their 
Resolution 

Altho' there was no need of Example to inflame Persons already 
so cheerful, yet to enter the People with better grace, the Author and 
two more of the Commissioners accompanied them half a Mile into 
the Dismal. The Skirts of it were thinly Planted with Dwarf Reeds 
and Gall-Bushes, but when we got into the Dismal itself, we found the 
Reeds grew there much taller and closer, and, to mend the matter was 
so interlac'd with bamboe -briers, that there was no scuffling thro' 
them without the help of Pioneers. At the same time, we found the 
Ground moist and trembling under our feet like a Quagmire, insomuch 

'The selections from Byrd are reprinted, by permission, from the 
copyright edition of his writings edited by J. S. Bassett and published by 
Doubleday, Page & Co.; see Bibliography. 



114 AMERICAN PROSE 



that it was an easy Matter to run a Ten-Foot-Pole up to the Head 
in it, without exerting any uncommon Strength to do it. 

Two of the Men, whose Burthens were the least cumbersome, had 
orders to march before, with their Tomahawks, and clear the way, in 
order to make an Opening for the Surveyors. By their Assistance we 
made a Shift to push the Line half a Mile in 3 Hours, and then reacht 
a small piece of firm Land, about 100 Yards wide, Standing up above 
the rest like an Island. Here the people were glad to lay down their 
Loads and take a little refreshment, while the happy man, whose lot 
it was to carry the Jugg of Rum, began already, like Aesop's Bread- 
Carriers, to find it grow a good deal lighter. 

After reposing about an Hour, the Commissioners recommended 
Vigour and Constancy to their Fellow-Travellers, by whom they 
were answer'd with 3 Cheerful Huzzas, in Token of Obedience. This 
Ceremony was no sooner over but they took up their Burthens and 
attended the Motion of the Surveyors, who, tho' they workt with all 
their might, could reach but one Mile farther, the same obstacles 
still attending them which they had met with in the Morning. 

However small this distance may seem to such as are us'd to 
travel at their Ease, yet our Poor Men, who were oblig'd to work 
with an unwieldy Load at their Backs, had reason to think it a long 
way; Especially in a Bogg where they had no firm Footing, but every 
Step made a deep Impression, which was instantly fill'd with Water. 
At the same time they were labouring with their Hands to cut down 
the Reeds, which were Ten-feet high, their Legs were hampered with 
the Bryars. Besides, tho Weather happen'd to be very warm, and 
the tallness of the Reeds kept off every Friendly Breeze from coming 
to refresh them. And, indeed, it was a little provoking to hear the 
Wind whistling among the Branches of the White Cedars, which grew 
here and there amongst the Reeds, and at the same time not have 
the Comfort to feel the least Breath of it. 

In the mean time the 3 Commissioners return'd out of the Dismal 
the same way they went in, and, having join'd their Brethren, pro- 
ceeded that Night as far as Mr. Wilson's. 

This worthy Person lives within sight of the Dismal, in the Skirts 
whereof his Stocks range and Maintain themselves all the Winter, and 
yet he knew as little of it as he did of Terra Australis Incognita. He 
told us a Canterbury Tale of a North Briton, whose Curiosity Spurr'd 



WILLIAM BYRD 115 



him a long way into this great Desart, as he call'd it, near 20 Years 
ago, but he having no Compass, nor seeing the Sun for several Days 
Together, wander'd about till he was almost famisht; but at last he 
bethought himself of a Secret his Countrymen make use of to Pilot 
themselves in a Dark day. 

He took a fat Louse out of his Collar, and expos'd it to the open 
day on a Piece of White Paper, which he brought along with him 
for his Journal. The poor Insect having no Eye-lids, turn'd himself 
about till he found the Darkest Part of the Heavens, and so made 
the best of his way towards the North. By this Direction he Steer'd 
himself Safe out, and gave such a frightful account of the Monsters 
he saw, and the Distresses he underwent, that no mortall Since has 
been hardy enough to go upon the like dangerous Discovery. 

15. The Surveyors pursued their work with all Diligence, but 
Still found the Soil of the Dismal so Spongy that the Water ouzed 
up into every foot-step they took. To their Sorrow, too, they found 
the Reeds and Bryars more firmly interwoven than they did the day 
before. But the greatest Grievance was from large Cypresses, 
which the Wind had blown down and heap'd upon one another. 
On the Limbs of most of them grew Sharp Snags, Pointing every 
way like so many Pikes, that requir'd much Pains and Caution to 
avoid. 

These Trees being Evergreens, and Shooting their Large Tops 
Very high, are easily overset by every Gust of Wind, because there 
is no firm Earth to Steddy their Roots. Thus many of them were 
laid prostrate to the great Encumbrance of the way. Such Variety 
' of Difficulties made the Business go on heavily, insomuch that, from 
Morning till Night, the Line could advance no further than 1 Mile 
and 31 Poles. Never was Rum, that cordial of Life, found more 
necessary than it was in this Dirty Place. It did not only recruit 
the People's Spirits, now almost Jaded with Fatigue, but serv'd to 
correct the Badness of the Water, and at the same time to resist the 
Malignity of the Air. Whenever the Men wanted to drink, which 
was very often, they had nothing more to do but to make a Hole, 
and the Water bubbled up in a Moment. But it was far from being 
either clear or well tasted, and had besides a Physical Effect, from 
the Tincture it receiv'd from the Roots of the Shrubbs and Trees 
that grew in the Neighbourhood 



Il6 AMERICAN PROSE 



17 th Since the Surveyors had enter 'd the Dismal, they 

had laid Eyes on no living Creature: neither Bird nor Beast, Insect 
nor Reptile came in View. Doubtless, the Eternal Shade that broods 
over this mighty Bog, and hinders the sun-beams from blessing the 
Ground, makes it, an uncomfortable Habitation for any thing that has 
life. Not so much as a Zealand Frog cou'd endure so Aguish a 
Situation. 

It had one Beauty, however, that delighted the Eye, tho' at 
the Expense of all the other Senses: the Moisture of the Soil pre- 
serves a continual Verdure, and makes every Plant an Evergreen, 
but at the same time the foul Damps ascend without ceasing, 
corrupt the Air, and render it unfit for Respiration. Not even a 
Turkey-Buzzard will venture to fly over it, no more than the Italian 
Vultures will over the filthy Lake Avernus, or the Birds in the 
Holy-Land over the Salt Sea, where Sodom and Gomorrah formerly 
stood. 

In these sad Circumstances, the kindest thing we cou'd do for 
our Suffering Friends was to give them a place in the Litany. Our 
Chaplain, for his Part, did his Office, and rubb'd us up with a Season- 
able Sermon. This was quite a new thing to our Brethren of North 
Carolina, who live in a climate where no clergyman can Breathe, 
any more than Spiders in Ireland. 

For want of men in Holy Orders, both the Members of the Council 
and Justices of the Peace are empower'd by the Laws of that Country 
to marry all those who will not take One another's Word; but for the 
ceremony of Christening their children, they trust that to chance. 
If a Parson come in their way, they will crave a Cast of his office, as 
they call it, else they are content their Offspring should remain as 
Arrant Pagans as themselves. They account it among their greatest 
advantages that they are not Priest-ridden, not remembering that 
the Clergy is rarely guilty of Bestriding such as have the misfortune 
to be poor. 

One thing may be said for the Inhabitants of that Province, that 
they are not troubled with any Religious Fumes, and have the least 
Superstition of any People living. They do not know Sunday from 
any other day, any more than Robinson Crusoe did, which would 
give them a great Advantage were they given to be industrious. But 
they keep so many Sabbaths every week, that their disregard of the 



WILLIAM BYRD 117 



Seventh Day has no manner of cruelty in it, either to Servants or 
Cattle 

19. We Ordered Several Men to Patrole on the Edge of the Dis- 
mal, both towards the North and towards the South, and to fire Guns 
at proper Distances. This they perform'd very punctually, but 
cou'd hear nothing in return, nor gain any Sort of Intelligence. In 
the mean time whole Flocks of Women and Children flew hither to 
Stare at us, with as much curiosity as if we had lately Landed from 
Bantam or Morocco. Some Borderers, too, had a great Mind to 
know where the Line wou'd come out, being for the most part Appre- 
hensive lest their Lands Should be taken into Virginia. In that case 
they must have submitted to some Sort of Order and Government; 
"whereas, in N Carolina, every One does what seems best in his own 
Eyes. There were some good Women that brought their children 
to be Baptiz'd, but brought no Capons along with them to make 
the solemnity cheerful. In the mean time it was Strange that none 
came to be marry'd in such a Multitude, if it had only been for the 
Novelty of having their Hands Joyn'd by one in Holy Orders. Yet 
so it was, that tho' our chaplain Christen'd above an Hundred, he did 
not marry so much as one Couple dureing the whole Expedition. 
But marriage is reckon'd a Lay contract in Carolina, as I said before, 
and a Country Justice can tie the fatal Knot there, as fast as an 
Arch-Bishop. 

None of our Visiters could, however, tell us any News of the 
'Surveyors, nor Indeed was it possible any of them shou'd at that 
time, They being still laboring in the Midst of the Dismal. 

It seems they were able to carry the Line this Day no further 
than one mile and 61 Poles, and that whole distance was thro' a 
Miry cedar Bogg, where the ground trembled under their Feet 
most frightfully. In many places too their Passage was retarded 
by a great number of fallen Trees, that lay Horsing upon one 
Another. 

Tho' many circumstances concurr'd to make this an unwhole- 
some Situation, yet the Poor men had no time to be sick, nor can 
one conceive a more Calamitous Case than it would have been to be 
laid up in that uncomfortable Quagmire. Never were Patients more 
tractable, or willing to take Physick, than these honest Fellows; 
but it was from a Dread of laying their Bones in a Bogg that wou'd 



Il8 AMERICAN PROSE 



soon spew them up again. That Consideration also put them upon 
more caution about their Lodging. 

They first cover'd the Ground with Square Pieces of Cypress 
bark, which now, in the Spring, they cou'd easily Slip off the Tree 
for that purpose. On this they Spread their Bedding; but unhappily 
the Weight and Warmth of their Bodies made the Water rise up 
betwixt the Joints of the Bark, to their great Inconvenience. Thus 
they lay not only moist, but also exceedingly cold, because their 
Fires were continually going out. For no sooner was the Trash upon 
the Surface burnt away, but immediately the Fire was extinguisht 
by the Moisture of the Soil, Insomuch that it was great part of the 
Centinel's Business to rekindle it again in a Fresh Place, every Quarter 
of an Hour. Nor cou'd they indeed do their duty better, because 
Cold was the only Enemy they had to Guard against in a miserable 
Morass, where nothing can inhabit 

21. The Surveyors and their Attendants began now in good 
Earnest to be alarm'd with Apprehensions of Famine, nor could they 
forbear looking with Some Sort of Appetite upon a dog that had 
been the faithful Companion of their Travels. 

Their Provisions were now near exhausted. They had this Morn- 
ing made the last Distribution, that so each might Husband his small 
Pittance as he pleas'd. Now it was that the fresh Colour'd Young 
Man began to tremble every Joint of Him, having dreamed, the 
Night before, that the Indians were about to Barbacue him over live 
coals. 

The Prospect of Famine determin'd the People, at last, with one 
consent, to abandon the Line for the Present, which advanced but 
slowly, and make the best of their way to firm Land. Accordingly 
they sat off very early, and, by the help of the Compass which they 
carried along with them, Steer'd a direct Westwardly Course. They 
marcht from Morning till Night, and Computed their Journey to 
amount to about 4 Miles, which was a great way, considering the 
difficulties of the Ground. It was all along a Cedar-Swamp, so dirty 
and perplext, that if they had not travell'd for their Lives, they cou'd 
not have reacht so far. 

On their way they espied a Turkey-Buzzard, that flew prodigi- 
ously high to get above the Noisome Exhalations that ascend from 
that filthy place. This they were willing to understand as a good 



WILLIAM BYRD IIQ 



Omen, according to the Superstitions of the Ancients, who had great 
Faith in the Flight of Vultures. However, after all this tedious 
Journey, they could yet discover no End of their toil, which made 
them very pensive, especially after they had eat the last Morsel of 
their Provisions. But to their unspeakable comfort, when all was 
husht in the Evening, they heard the Cattle low, and the Dogs bark, 
very distinctly, which, to Men in that distress, was more delightful 
Music than Faustina or Farinelli cou'd have made. In the mean 
time the Commissioners could get no News of them from any 
of their Visiters, who assembled from every Point of the Com- 
pass 

22 In the midst of our concern, we were most agreeably 

surpriz'd, just after Dinner, with the News that the Dismalites were 
all Safe. These blessed Tidings were brought to us by Mr. Swan, 
the Carolina-Surveyor, who came to us in a very tatter'd condition. 

After very Short Salutations, we got about Him as if He had 
been a Hottentot, and began to Inquire into his Adventures. He 
gave us a Detail of their uncomfortable Voyage thro' the Dismal, 
and told us, particularly, they had pursued their Journey early that 
Morning, encouraged by the good Omen of seeing the Crows fly over 
their Heads; that, after an Hour's march over very Rotten Ground, 
they, on a Sudden, began to find themselves among tall Pines, that 
grew in the Water, which in Many Places was Knee-deep. This 
Pine Swamp, into which that of Coropeak drain'd itself, extended 
near a Mile in Breadth; and tho' it was exceedingly wet, yet it was 
much harder at Bottom than the rest of the Swamp ; that about Ten in 
the Morning, they recovered firm Land, which they embraced with as 
much Pleasure as Shipwreckt Wretches do the shoar. 

FROM 

A PROGRESS TO THE MINES 

[September 21, 1732.] I was sorry in the morning to find myself 
stopt in my Career by bad Weather brought upon us by a North- 
East Wind. This drives a World of Raw unkindly Vapours upon us 
from Newfoundland, loaden with Blite, Coughs, and Pleurisys. 
However, I complain'd not, lest I might be suspected to be tir'd of the 
good Company. Tho' Mrs. Fleming was not so much upon her 
Guard, but mutiny'd strongly at the Rain, that hinder'd her from 



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pursuing her dear Husband. I said what I cou'd to comfort a Gentle- 
woman under so sad a Disappointment. I told her a Husband, that 
staid so much at Home as her's did, cou'd be no such violent Rarity, 
as for a Woman to venture her precious Health, to go daggling thro' 
the Rain after him, or to be miserable if she happen'd to be prevented. 
That it was prudent for marry'd people to fast Sometimes from one 
another, that they might come together again with the better Stomach. 
That the best things in this World, if constantly us'd, are apt to be 
cloying, which a little absence and Abstinence wou'd prevent. This 
was Strange Doctrine to a fond Female who fancys People shou'd 
love with as little Reason after Marriage as before. In the After- 
noon Monsieur Marij, the Minister of the Parish, came to make me 
a Visit. He had been a Romish Priest, but found Reasons, either 
Spiritual or temporal, to quit that gay Religion. The fault of this 
new Convert is, that he looks for as much Respect from his Protestant 
Flock, as is paid to the Popish Clergy, which our ill-bred Hugonots 
dont understand. Madam Marij, had so much Curiosity as to want 
to come too; but another Horse was wanting, and she believ'd it 
would have too Vulgar an Air to ride behind her Husband. This 
Woman was of the true Exchange Breed, full of Discourse, but void 
of Discretion, and marry'd a Parson, with the Idle hopes he might 
some time or other come to be his Grace of Canterbury. The Gray 
Mare is the better Horse in that Family, and the poor man Submits to 
her wild Vagarys for Peace' Sake. She has just enough of the fine 
Lady, to run in debt, and be of no signification in her Household. 
And the only thing that can prevent her from undoing her loving 
Husband will be, that nobody will trust them beyond the 16000, 
which is soon run out in a Goochland store. The way of Dealing 
there is, for some small Merchant or Pedler to buy a Scots Penny- 
worth of Goods, and clap 150 p cent, upon that. At this Rate the 
Parson cant be paid much more for his preaching than tis worth. No 
sooner was our Visiter retired, but the facetious Widow was so kind 
as to let me into all this Secret History, but was at the same time 
exceedingly Sorry that the Woman should be so indiscreet, and the 
man so tame as to be govern 'd by an unprofitable and fantastical Wife. 
22. We had another wet day, to try both Mrs. Fleming's Patience 
and my good Breeding. The N E Wind commonly sticks by us 3 or 4 
days, filling the Atmosphere with damps, injurious both to man and 



WILLIAM BYRD 12 1 



Beast. The worst of it was, we had no good Liquor to warm our 
Blood,' and fortify our Spirits against so strong a Malignity. How- 
ever, I was cheerful under all these Misfortunes, and exprest no Con- 
cern but a decent Fear lest my long visit might be troublesome. 
Since I was like to have thus much Leizure, I endeavour'd to find 
out what Subject a dull marry'd man cou'd introduce that might 
best bring the Widow to the Use of her Tongue. At length I dis- 
cover'd she was a notable Quack, and therefore paid that regard to 
her Knowledge, as to put some Questions to her about the bad dis- 
temper that raged then in the Country. I mean the Bloody Flux, 
that was brought us in the Negro-ship consigned to Colo. Braxton. 
She told me she made use of very Simple remedys in that Case, with 
very good Success. She did the Business either with Hartshorn 
Drink, that had Plantain Leaves boil'd in it, or else with a Strong 
decoction of St. Andrew's Cross, in New milk instead of Water. I 
agreed with her that those remedys might be very good, but would 
be more effectual after a dose or two of Indian Physick. But for 
fear this Conversation might be too grave for a Widow, I turn'd the 
discourse, and began to talk of Plays, & finding her Taste lay most 
towards Comedy, I offer'd my Service to read one to Her, which she 
kindly accepted. She produced the 2d part of the Beggar's Opera, 
which had diverted the Town for 40 Nights successively, and gain'd 
four thousand pounds to the Author. This was not owing altogether 
to the Wit or Humour that Sparkled in it, but to some Political 
Reflections, that seem'd to hit the Ministry. But the great Advan- 
tage of the Author was, that his Interest was solicited by the Dutchess 
of Queensbury, which no man could refuse who had but half an Eye 
in his head, or half a Guinea in his Pocket. Her Grace, like Death, 
spared nobody, but even took my Lord Selkirk in for 2 Guineas, to 
repair which Extravagance he liv'd upon Scots Herrings 2 Months 
afterwards. But the best Story was, she made a very Smart Officer 
in his Majesty's Guards give her a Guinea, who Swearing at the same 
time twas all he had in the World, she sent him 50 for it the next day, 
to reward his Obedience. After having acquainted my Company 
with the history of the Play, I read 3 Acts of it, and left Mrs. Fleming 
and Mr. Randolph to finish it, who read as well as most Actors do at 
a Rehearsal. Thus we kill'd the time, and triumpht over the bad 
Weather. 



122 AMERICAN PROSE 



JONATHAN EDWARDS 

THE SWEET GLORY OF GOD 

From my Childhood up, my Mind had been wont to be full of 
Objections against the Doctrine of GOD's Sovereignty, in choosing 
whom he would to eternal Life, and rejecting whom he pleased; 
leaving them eternally to perish, and be everlastingly tormented in 
Hell. It used to appear like a horrible Doctrine to me. But I 
remember the Time very well, when I seemed to be convinced, and 
fully satisfied, as to this Sovereignty of God, and his Justice in thus 
eternally disposing of Men, according to his sovereign Pleasure. 
But never could give an Account, how, or by what Means, I was thus 
convinced; not in the least imagining, in the Time of it, nor a long 
Time after, that there was any extraordinary Influence of God's 
Spirit in it: but only that now I saw further, and my Reason appre- 
hended the Justice and Reasonableness of it. However, my Mind 
rested in it; and it put an end to all those Cavils and Objections, that 
had 'till then abode with me, all the proceeding part of my Life. And 
there has been a wonderful Alteration in my Mind, with respect to 
the Doctrine of God's Sovereignty, from that Day to this: so that I 
scarce ever have found so much as the rising of an Objection against 
God's Sovereignty, in the most absolute Sense, in shewing Mercy on 
whom he will shew Mercy, and hardening and eternally damning 
whom he will. God's absolute Sovereignty, and Justice, with respect 
to Salvation and Damnation, is what my Mind seems to rest assured 
of, as much as of any Thing that I see with my Eyes; at least it is so 
at Times. But I have often times since that first Conviction, had 
quite another Kind of Sense of God's Sovereignty, than I had then. 
I have often since, not only had a Conviction, but a delightful Con- 
viction. The Doctrine of God's Sovereignty has very often appeared, 
an exceeding pleasant, bright and sweet Doctrine to me: and 
absolute Sovereignty is what I love to ascribe to God. But my first 
Conviction was not with this. 

The first that I remember that ever I found any thing of that 
Sort of inward, sweet Delight in GOD and divine Things, that I have 
lived much in since, was on reading those Words, i Tim. i. 17: Now 
unto the King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only wise GOD, be 
Honor and Glory for ever and ever, Amen. As I read the Words, 



JONATHAN EDWARDS 123 

there came into my Soul, and was as it were diffused thro' it, a Sense 
of the Glory of the Divine Being; a new Sense, quite different from 
any Thing I ever experienced before. Never any Words of Scripture 
seemed to me as these Words did. I thought with my self, how 
excellent a Being that was; and how happy I should be, if I might 
enjoy that GOD, and be wrapt up to GOD in Heaven, and be as it 
were swallowed up in Him. I kept saying, and as it were singing 
over these Words of Scripture to my self; and went to Prayer, to 
pray to GOD that I might enjoy him; and prayed in a manner quite 
different from what I used to do; with a new sort of Affection. But 
it never came into my Thought, that there was any thing spiritual, or 
of asaving Nature in this. 

From about that Time, I began to have a new Kind of Appre- 
hensions and Ideas of Christ, and the Work of Redemption, and 
the glorious Way of Salvation by him. I had an inward, sweet Sense 
of these Things, that at times came into my Heart; and my Soul was 
led away in pleasant Views and Contemplations of them. And my 
Mind was greatly engaged, to spend my Time in reading and medi- 
tating on Christ; and the Beauty and Excellency of his Person, 
and the lovely Way of Salvation, by free Grace in him. I found no 
Books so delightful to me, as those that treated of these Subjects. 
Those Words Cant. ii. 1. used to be abundantly with me: / am the 
Rose of Sharon, the Lilly of the Valleys. The Words seemed to me, 
sweetly to represent, the Loveliness and Beauty of Jesus Christ. And 
the whole Book of Canticles used to be pleasant to me; and I used 
to be much in reading it, about that time. And found, from Time 
to Time, an inward Sweetness, that used, as it were, to carry me 
away in my Contemplations; in what I know not how to express 
otherwise, than by a calm, sweet Abstraction of Soul from all the 
Concerns of this World; and a kind of Vision, or fix'd Ideas and 
Imaginations, of being alone in the Mountains, or some solitary 
Wilderness, far from all Mankind, sweetly conversing with Christ, 
and wrapt and swallowed up in GOD. The Sense I had of divine 
Things, would often of a sudden, as it were, kindle up a sweet burning 
in my Heart; an ardor of Soul, that I know not how to express. 

Not long after I first began to experience these Things, I gave an 
Account to my Father, of some Things that had pass'd in my Mind. 
I was pretty much affected by the Discourse we had together. And 
when the Discourse was ended, I walked abroad alone, in a solitary 



124 AMERICAN PROSE 



Place in my Father's Pasture, for Contemplation. And as I was 
walking there, and looked up on the Sky and Clouds; there came into 
my Mind, a sweet Sense of the glorious Majesty and Grace of GOD, 
that I know not how to express. I seemed to see them both in a 
sweet Conjunction: Majesty and Meekness join'd together: it 
was a sweet and gentle, and holy Majesty; and also a majestick 
Meekness; an awful Sweetness; a high, and great, and holy Gentleness. 
After this my Sense of divine Things gradually increased, and 
became more and more lively, and had more of that inward Sweetness. 
The Appearance of every thing was altered: there seem'd to be, 
as it were, a calm, sweet Cast, or Appearance of divine Glory, in 
almost every Thing. God's Excellency, his Wisdom, his Purity and 
Love, seemed to appear in every Thing; in the Sun, Moon and Stars; 
in the Clouds, and blue Sky; in the Grass, Flowers, Trees; in the 
Water, and all Nature; which used greatly to fix my Mind. I 
often used to sit & view the Moon, for a long Time; and so in the 
Day-time, spent much time in viewing the Clouds & Sky, to behold 
the sweet Glory of GOD in these Things: in the mean Time, singing 
forth with a low Voice, my Contemplations of the Creator & Re- 
deemer. And scarce any Thing, among all the Works of Nature, was 
so sweet to me as Thunder and Lightning. Formerly, nothing 
had been so terrible to me. I used to be a Person uncommonly terri- 
fied with Thunder: and it used to strike me with Terror, when I saw 
a Thunder-storm rising. But now, on the contrary, it rejoyced me. 
I felt GOD at the first Appearance of a Thunder storm. And used to 
take the Opportunity at such Times, to fix my self to view the Clouds, 
and see the Lightnings play, and hear the majestick & awful Voice 
of God's Thunder: which often times was exceeding entertaining, 
leading me to sweet Contemplations of my great and glorious GOD. 
And while I viewed, used to spend my time, as it always seem'd 
natural to me, to sing or chant forth my Meditations; to speak my 
Thoughts in Soliloquies, and speak with a singing Voice. 

FROM 

SINNERS IN THE HANDS OF AN ANGRY GOD 

The Use may be of Awakning to unconverted Persons in this 
Congregation. This that you have heard is the Case of every one 
of you that are out of Christ. That World of Misery, that Lake of 



JONATHAN EDWARDS 125 

burning Brimstone, is extended abroad under you. There is the 
dreadful Pit of the glowing Flames of the Wrath of God; there is 
Hell's wide gaping Mouth open; and you have nothing to stand 
upon, nor any Thing to take hold of: There is nothing between you 
and Hell but the Air; 'tis only the Power and mere Pleasure of God 
that holds you up. 

You probably are not sensible of this; you find you are kept out of 
Hell, but don't see the Hand of God in it, but look at other Things, 
as the good State of your bodily Constitution, your Care of your own 
Life, and the Means you use for your own Preservation. But indeed 
these Things are nothing; if God should withdraw his Hand, they 
would avail no more to keep you from falling, than the thin Air to 
hold up a Person that is suspended in it. 

Your Wickedness makes you as it were heavy as Lead, and to 
tend downwards with great Weight and Pressure towards Hell; 
and, if God should let you go, you would immediately sink, and 
swiftly descend and plunge into the bottomless Gulf; and your 
healthy Constitution, and your own Care and Prudence, and best 
Contrivance, and all your Righteousness, would have no more 
Influence to uphold you and keep you out of Hell, than a Spider's 
Web would have to stop a falling Rock. Were it not that so is the 
sovereign Pleasure of God, the Earth would not bear you one Moment; 
for you are a Burden to it; the Creation grones with you; the Crea- 
ture is made subject to the Bondage of your Corruption, not willingly; 
the Sun don't willingly shine upon you, to give you Light to serve 
Sin and Satan; the Earth don't willingly yield her Increase to satisfy 
your Lusts, nor is it willingly a Stage for your Wickedness to be 
acted upon; the Air don't willingly serve you for Breath to maintain 
the Flame of Life in your Vitals, while you spend your Life in the 
Service of God's Enemies. God's Creatures are good, and were made 
for Men to serve God with, and don't willingly subserve to any other 
Purpose, and grone when they are abused to Purposes so directly 
contrary to their Nature and End: And the World would spue you 
tmt, were it not for the sovereign Hand of him who hath subjected 
it in Hope. There are the black Clouds of God's Wrath now hanging 
directly over your Heads, full of the dreadful Storm, and big with 
Thunder; and, were it not for the restraining Hand of God, it would 
immediately burst forth upon you. The sovereign Pleasure of God 



126 AMERICAN PROSE 



for the present stays his rough Wind; otherwise it would come with 
Fury, and your Destruction would come like a Whirlwind, and you 
would be like the Chaff of the Summer Threshing-floor. 

The Wrath of God is like great Waters that are dammed for the 
present; they increase more and more, and rise higher and higher, 
till an Outlet is given; and the longer the Stream is stopt, the more 
rapid and mighty is its Course when once it is let loose. 'Tis true, that 
Judgment against your evil Works has not been executed hitherto; 
the Floods of God's Vengeance have been withheld; but your Guilt 
in the mean Time is constantly increasing, and you are every Day 
treasuring up more Wrath; the Waters are continually rising, and 
waxing more and more mighty; and there is nothing but the mere 
Pleasure of God that holds the Waters back that are unwilling to be 
stopt, and press hard to go forward; if God should only withdraw his 
Hand from the Flood-gate, it would immediately fly open, and the 
fiery Floods of the Fierceness and Wrath of God would rush forth with 
inconceivable Fury, and would come upon you with omnipotent 
Power; and if your Strength were Ten thousand Times greater than 
it is, yea Ten thousand Times greater than the Strength of the stoutest, 
sturdiest Devil in Hell, it would be nothing to withstand or endure it. 

The Bow of God's Wrath is bent, and the Arrow made ready on 
the String; and Justice bends the Arrow at your Heart, and strains 
the Bow; and it is nothing but the mere Pleasure of God, and that 
of an angry God, without any Promise or Obligation at all, that keeps 
the Arrow one Moment from being made drunk with your Blood. 

Thus are all you that never passed under a great Change of 
Heart, by the mighty Power of the Spirit of GOD upon your Souls; 
all that were never born again, and made new Creatures, and raised 
from being dead in Sin, to a State of new, and before altogether unex- 
perienced Light and Life, (however you may have reformed your 
Life in many Things, and may have had religious Affections, and 
may keep up a Form of Religion in your Families and Closets, and 
in the House of God, and may be strict in it) you are thus in the 
Hands of an angry God; 'tis nothing but his mere Pleasure that 
keeps you from being this Moment swallowed up- in everlasting 
Destruction. 

However unconvinced you may now be of the Truth of what you 
hear, by and by you will be fully convinced of it. Those that are gone 



JONATHAN EDWARDS 127 

from being in the like Circumstances with you, see that it was so with 
them; for Destruction came suddenly upon most of them, when they 
expected nothing of it, and while they were saying, Peace and Safety: 
Now they see, that those Things that they depended on for Peace 
and Safety, were nothing but thin Air and empty Shadows. 

The God that holds you over the Pit of Hell, much as one holds a 
Spider or some lothsom Insect over the Fire, abhors you, and is 
dreadfully provoked; his Wrath towards you burns like Fire; he 
looks upon you as worthy of nothing else but to be cast into the Fire; 
he is of purer Eyes than to bear to have you in his Sight; you are 
Ten thousand Times so abominable in his Eyes as the most hateful 
Venomous Serpent is in ours. You have offended him infinitely 
more than ever a stubborn Rebel did his Prince; and yet 'tis nothing 
but his Hand that holds you from falling into the Fire every Moment: 
'Tis to be ascribed to nothing else, that you did not go to Hell the last 
Night; that you was suffered to awake again in this World, after 
you closed your Eyes to sleep: And there is no other Reason to be 
given why you have not dropt into Hell since you arose in the Morn- 
ing, but that God's Hand has held you up: There is no other Reason 
to be given why you han't gone to Hell since you have sat here in the 
House of God, provoking his pure Eyes by your sinful wicked Manner 
of attending his solemn Worship; yea, there is nothing else that is to 
be given as a Reason why you don't this very Moment drop down into 
Hell. 

O Sinner! Consider the fearful Danger you are in: 'Tis a great 
Furnace of Wrath, a wide and bottomless Pit, full of the Fire of 
Wrath, that you are held over in the Hand of that God, whose 
Wrath is provoked and incensed as much against you as against 
many of the Damned in Hell: You hang by a slender Threed, with 
the Flames of Divine Wrath flashing about it, and ready every 
Moment to singe it, and burn it asunder; and you have no Interest 
in any Mediator, and nothing to lay hold of to save yourself, nothing 
•to keep off the Flames of Wrath, nothing of your own, nothing that 
you ever have done, nothing that you can do, to induce God to spare 
you one Moment 

How dreadful is the State of those that are daily and hourly in 
Danger of this great Wrath, and infinite Misery! But this is the 
dismal Case of every Soul in this Congregation that has not been born 



128 AMERICAN PROSE 



again, however moral and strict, sober and religious they may other- 
wise be. Oh that you would consider it, whether you be Young or 
Old! There is Reason to think, that there are many in this Congre- 
gation, now hearing this Discourse,' that will actually be the Subjects 
of this very Misery to all Eternity. We know not who they are, or 
in what Seats they sit, or what Thoughts they now have: It may 
be they are now at Ease, and hear all these Things without much 
Disturbance, and are now flattering themselves that they are not the 
Persons, promising themselves that they shall escape. If we knew 
that there was one Person, and but one, in the whole Congregation 
that was to be the Subject of this Misery, what an awful Thing would 
it be to think of! If we knew who it was, what an awful Sight would 
it be to see such a Person! How might all the rest of the Congre- 
gation lift up a lamentable and bitter Cry over him! But alas! 
Instead of one, how many is it likely will remember this Discourse 
in Hell ? And it would be a Wonder if some that are now present 
should not be in Hell in a Very short Time, before this Year is out; and 
it would be no Wonder if some Person that now sits here in some 
Seat of this Meeting-House in Health, and quiet and secure, should 
be there before To-Morrow Morning. Those of you that finally 
continue in a natural Condition, that shall keep out of Hell longest, 
will be there in a little Time! your Damnation don't slumber; it will 
come swiftly, and in all Probability very suddenly upon many of you. 
You have Reason to wonder, that you are not already in Hell. 'Tis 
doubtless the Case of some that heretofore you have seen and known, 
that never deserved Hell more than you, and that heretofore appeared 
as likely to have been now alive as you: Their Case is past all Hope; 
they are crying in extreme Misery and perfect Despair: But here you 
are in the Land of the Living, and in the House of God, and have an 
Opportunity to obtain Salvation. What would not those poor 
damned, hopeless Souls give for one Day's such Opportunity as you 
now enjoy! 

FROM 

ENQUHtY INTO THE FREEDOM OF THE WILL 

A Great Argument for Self-determining Power, is the supposed 
Experience we universally have of an Ability to determine our Wills, 
in Cases wherein no prevailing Motive is presented: The Will (as is 



JONATHAN EDWARDS 129 

supposed) has it's Choice to make between two or more Things, that 
are perfectly equal in the View of the Mind; and the Will is appar- 
ently altogether indifferent; and yet we find no Difficulty in coming 
to a Choice; the Will can instantly determine it self to one, by a 
sovereign Power which it has over it self, without being moved by any 
preponderating Inducement. 

Thus the forementioned Author of an Essay on the Freedom of the 
Will &c. P. 25, 26, 27, supposes, "That there are many Instances, 
wherein the Will is determined neither by present Uneasiness, nor 
by the greatest apparent Good, nor by the last Dictate of the Under- 
Standing, nor by any Thing else, but meerly by it self, as a Sovereign 
Self-determining Power of the Soul; and that the Soul does not will 
this or that Action, in some Cases, by any other Influence, but 
because it will. Thus (says he) I can turn my Face to the South, or 
the North; I can point with my Finger upward, or downward. — 
And thus, in some Cases, the Will determines it self in a very sover- 
eign Manner, because it will, without a Reason borrowed from the 
Understanding: and hereby it discovers it's own perfect Power of 
Choice, rising from within it self, and free from all Influence or 
Restraint of any Kind." And in Pages 66, 70, & 73, 74. This 
Author very expresly supposes the Will in many Cases to be deter- 
mined hy no Motive at all, and acts altogether without Motive, or Ground 
of Preference. Here I would observe, 

1. The very Supposition which is here made, directly contra- 
dicts and overthrows it self. For the Thing supposed, wherein this 
grand Argument consists, is, That among several Things the Will 
actually chuses one before another, at the same Time that it is per- 
fectly indifferent; which is the very .same Thing as to say, the Mind 
has a Preference, at the same Time that it has no Preference. What 
is meant can't be, that the Mind is indifferent before it comes to have 
a Choice, or 'till it has a Preference; or, which is the same Thing, 
that the Mind is indifferent until it comes to be not indiffer- 
ent. For certainly this Author did not suppose he had a Con- 
troversy with any Person in supposing this. And then it is Nothing 
to his Purpose, that the Mind which chuses, was indifferent once; 
unless it chuses, remaining indifferent; for otherwise, it don't chuse at 
all in that Case of Indifference, concerning which is all the Question. 
Besides, it appears in Fact, that the Thing which this Author supposes, 



130 AMERICAN PROSE 



is not that the Will chuses one Thing before another, concern- 
ing which it is indifferent before it chuses; but also is indifferent 
when it chuses; and that it's being otherwise than indifferent is not 
'till afterwards, in Consequence of it's Choice; that the chosen 
Thing's appearing preferable and more agreable than another, arises 
from it's Choice already made. His Words are (P. 30.) "Where 
the Objects which are proposed, appear equally fit or good, the Will 
is left without a Guide or Director; and therefore must make it's 
own Choice, by it's own Determination; it being properly a Self- 
determining Power. And in such Cases the Will does as it were make 
a Good to it self by it's own Choice, i. e. creates it's own Pleasure or 
Delight in this Self-chosen Good. Even as a Man by seizing upon a 
Spot of unoccupied Land, in an uninhabited Country, makes it his own 
Possession and Property, and as such rejoyces in it. Where Things 
were indifferent before, the Will finds Nothing to make them more 
agreable, considered meerly in themselves; but the Pleasure it feels 
ARISING FROM IT'S OWN CHOICE, and it's Perseverance 
therein. We love many Things which we have chosen, AND 
PURELY BECAUSE WE CHOSE THEM." 

This is as much as to say, that we first begin to prefer many 
Things, now ceasing any longer to be indifferent with Respect to 
them, purely because we have prefer'd and chosen them before. — 
These Things must needs be spoken inconsiderately by this Author. 
Choice or Preference can't be before it self, in the same Instance, 
either in the Order of Time or Nature: It can't be the Foundation 
of it self, or the Fruit or Consequence of it self. The very Act of 
chusing one Thing rather than another, is preferring that Thing, and 
that is setting a higher Value on that Thing. But that the Mind 
sets an higher Value on one Thing than another, is not, in the first 
Place, the Fruit of it's setting a higher Value on that Thing. 

This Author says, P. 36, "The Will may be perfectly indiffer- 
ent, and yet the Will may determine it self to chuse one or the other." 
And again in the same Page, "I am entirely indifferent to either; and 
yet my Will may determine it self to chuse." And again, "Which 
I shall chuse must be determined by the meer Act of my Will." If the 
Choice is determined by a meer Act of Will, then the Choice is de- 
termined by a meer Act of Choice. And concerning this Matter, viz. 
that the Act of the Will it self is determined by an Act of Choice, this 



JONATHAN EDWARDS 131 

Writer is express, in P. 72. Speaking of the Case, where there is no 
superiour Fitness in Objects presented, he has these Words: "There it 
must act by it's own CHOICE, and determine it self as it PLEASES." 
Where it is supposed that the very Determination, which is the Ground 
and Spring of the Will's Act, is an Act of Choice and Pleasure, wherein 
one Act is more agreable, and the Mind better pleased in it than 
another; and this Preference, and superiour Pleasedness is the Ground 
of all it does in the Case. And if so, the Mind is not indifferent 
when it determines it self, but had rather do one Thing than another, 
had rather determine it self one Way than another. And therefore 
the Will don't act at all in Indifference; not so much as in the first 
Step it takes, or the first Rise and Beginning of it's acting. If it be 
possible for the Understanding to act in Indifference, yet to be sure 
the Will never does; because the Will's beginning to act is the very 
same Thing as it's beginning to chuse or prefer. And if in the 
very first Act of the Will, the Mind prefers something, then the 
Idea of that Thing prefer'd, does at that Time preponderate, or 
prevail in the Mind; or, which is the same Thing, the Idea of it has 
a prevailing Influence on the Will. So that this wholly destroys the 
Thing supposed, viz. That the Mind can by a sovereign Power chuse 
one of two or more Things, which in the View of the Mind are, in 
every Respect, perfectly equal, one of which does not at all preponder- 
ate, nor has any prevailing Influence on the Mind above another. 

So that this Author, in his grand Argument for the Ability of 
the Will to chuse one of two, or more Things, concerning which it is 
perfectly indifferent, does at the same Time, in Effect, deny the 
Thing he supposes, and allows and asserts the Point he endeavours 
to overthrow; even that the Will, in chusing, is subject to no prevailing 
Influence of the Idea, or View of the Thing chosen. And indeed it is 
impossible to offer this Argument without overthrowing it; the 
Thing supposed in it being inconsistent with it self, and that which 
denies it self. To suppose the Will to act at all in a State of perfect 
Indifference, either to determine it self, or to do any Thing else, is to 
assert that the Mind chuses without chusing. To say that when it is 
indifferent, it can do as it pleases, is to say that it can follow it's 
Pleasure, when it has no Pleasure to follow. And therefore if there 
be any Difficulty in the Instances of two Cakes, or two Eggs &c. which 
are exactly alike, one as good as another; concerning which this 



132 AMERICAN PROSE 



Author supposes the Mind in Fact has a Choice, and so in Effect 
supposes that it has a Preference; it as much concern'd Himself to 
solve the Difficulty, as it does those whom he opposes. For if these 
Instances prove any Thing to his Purpose, they prove that a Man 
chuses without Choice. And yet this is not to his Purpose; because 
if this is what he asserts, his own Words are as much against him, 
and do as much contradict him, as the Words of those he disputes 
against can do. 

2. There is no great Difficulty in shewing, in such Instances as 
are alledged, not only that it must needs be so, that the Mind must 
be influenced in it's Choice by something that has a preponderat- 
ing Influence upon it, but also how it is so. A little Attention to 
our own Experience, and a distinct Consideration of the Acts 
of our own Minds in such Cases, will be sufficient to clear up the 
Matter. 

Thus, supposing I have a Chess-board before me; and because 
I am required by a Superiour, or desired by a Friend, or to make 
some Experiment concerning my own Ability and Liberty, or on some 
other Consideration, I am determined to touch some one of the 
Spots or Squares on the Board with my Finger; not being limited or 
directed in the first Proposal, or my own first Purpose, which is general, 
to any one in particular; and there being nothing in the Squares in 
themselves considered, that recommends any one of all the sixty 
four, more than another: In this Case, my Mind determines to give 
it self up to what is vulgarly called Accident, by determining to touch 
that Square which happens to be most in View, which my Eye is 
especially upon at that Moment, or which happens then to be most in 
my Mind, or which I shall be directed to by some other such-like 
Accident. Here are several Steps of the Mind's proceeding (tho' 
all may be done as it were in a Moment) : the first Step is it's general 
Determination that it will touch one of the Squares. The next Step 
is another general Determination to give it self up to Accident, in 
some certain Way; as to touch that which shall be most in the Eye 
or Mind at that Time, or to some other such-like Accident. The third 
and last Step is a particular Determination to touch a certain indi- 
vidual Spot, even that Square, which, by that Sort of Accident the 
Mind has pitched upon, has actually offered it self beyond others. 
Now 'tis apparent that in none of these several Steps does the Mind 



JOHN WOOLMAN 133 



proceed in absolute Indifference, but in each of them is influenced by 
a preponderating Inducement. So it is in the first Step; The Mind's 
general Determination to touch one of the sixty four Spots: The 
Mind is not absolutely indifferent whether it does so or no: It is 
induced to it, for the Sake of making some Experiment, or by the 
Desire of a Friend, or some other Motive that prevails. So it is in 
the second Step, The Mind's determining to give it self up to Accident, 
by torching that which shall be most in the Eye, or the Idea of which 
shall be most prevalent in the Mind &c. The Mind is not absolutely 
indifferent whether it proceeds by this Rule or no; but chuses it, 
because it appears at that Time a convenient and requisite Expedient 
in order to fulfil the general Purpose aforesaid. And so it is in the 
third and last Step, It's determining to touch that individual Spot 
which actually does prevail in the Mind's View. The Mind is not 
indifferent concerning this; but is influenced by a prevailing Induce- 
ment and Reason; which is, that this is a Prosecution of the preceed- 
ing Determination, which appeared requisite, and was fix'd before in 
the second Step. 



JOHN WOOLMAN 

FROM 

THE JOURNAL 

SLAVERY 

Two things were remarkable to me in this journey: first, in regard 
to my entertainment; when I eat, drank, and lodged free-cost with 
people, who lived in ease on the hard labour of their slaves, I felt 
uneasy; and as my mind was inward to the Lord, I found, from place 
to place, this uneasiness return upon me, at times, through the whole 
visit. Where the masters bore a good share of the burthen, and 
lived frugally, so that their servants were well provided for, and their 
labour moderate, I felt more easy; but where they lived in a costly 
way, and laid heavy burthens on their slaves, my exercise was often 
great, and I frequently had conversation with them, in private, con- 
cerning it. Secondly: this trade of importing slaves from their 
native country being much encouraged amongst them, and the white 
people and their children so generally living without much labour, 



134 AMERICAN PROSE 



was frequently the subject of my serious thoughts: and I saw in these 
southern provinces so many vices and corruptions, increased by this 
trade and this way of life, that it appeared to me as a dark gloominess 
hanging over the land; and though now many willingly run into it, 
yet in future the consequence will be grievous to posterity: I express 
it as it hath appeared to me, not at once, nor twice, but as a matter 
fixed on my mind. 

RELIGIOUS SCRUPLES AGAINST DYED GARMENTS 

From my early acquaintance with truth, I have often felt an 
inward distress, occasioned by the striving of a spirit in me, against 
the operation of the heavenly principle; and in this circumstance have 
been affected with a sense of my own wretchedness, and in a mourn- 
ing condition felt earnest longing for that divine help, which brings the 
soul into true liberty; and sometimes in this state, retiring into private 
places, the spirit of supplication hath been given me; and under a 
heavenly covering, have asked my gracious Father, to give me a heart 
in all things resigned to the direction of his wisdom, and in uttering 
language like this, the thoughts of my wearing hats and garments 
dyed with a dye hurtful to them, has made lasting impressions 
on me. 

In visiting people of note in the society who had slaves, and 
labouring with them in brotherly love on that account, I have seen, 
and the sight has affected me, that a conformity to some customs, 
distinguishable from pure wisdom, has entangled many; and the 
desire of gain to support these customs, greatly opposed the work of 
truth: and sometimes when the prospect of the work before me has 
been such, that in bowedness of spirit, I have been drawn into retired 
places, and besought the Lord with tears that he would take me 
wholly under his direction, and shew me the way in which I ought to 
walk; it hath revived with strength of conviction, that if I would 
be his faithful servant, I must in all things attend to his wisdom, and 
be teachable; and so cease from all customs contrary thereto, however 
used amongst religious people. 

As he is the perfection of power, of wisdom, and of goodness; so 
I believe, he hath provided, that so much labour shall be necessary 
for men's support, in this world, as would, being rightly divided, be a 



JOHN WOOLMAN 135 



suitable employment of their time; and that we cannot go into super- 
fluities, or grasp after wealth in a way contrary to his wisdom, without 
having connection with some degree of oppression, and with that 
spirit which leads to self-exaltation and strife, and which frequently 
brings calamities on countries, by parties contending about their 
claims. 

Being thus fully convinced, and feeling an increasing desire to 
live in the spirit of peace; being often sorrowfully affected with the 
thinking on the unquiet spirit in which wars are generally carried on, 
and with the miseries of many of my fellow-creatures engaged therein; 
some suddenly destroyed; some wounded, and after much pain 
remain cripples; some deprived of all their outward substance, 
and reduced to want; and some carried into captivity. Thinking 
often on these things, the use of hats and garments dyed with a dye 
hurtful to them, and wearing more clothes in summer than are useful, 
grew more uneasy to me, believing them to be customs which have not 
their foundation in pure wisdom. The apprehension of being singular 
from my beloved friends, was a strait upon me; and thus I remained 
in the use of some things contrary to my judgment. 

On the thirty-first day of the fifth month, 1761, I was taken ill 
of a fever; and, after having it near a week, I was in great distress of 
body: and one day there was a cry raised in me, that I might under- 
stand the cause why I was afflicted, and improve under it: and my 
conformity to some customs, which I believed were not right, were 
brought to my remembrance; and in the continuation of this exercise, 
I felt all the powers in me yield themselves up into the hands of Him 
who gave me being; and was made thankful, that he had taken hold 
of me by his chastisement: feeling the necessity of further purifying, 
there was now no desire in me for health, until the design of my cor- 
rection was answered; and thus I lay in abasement and brokenness 
of spirit, and as I felt a sinking down into a calm resignation, so I felt, 
as in an instant, an inward healing in my nature; and from that time 
forward I grew better. 

Though I was thus settled in my mind in relation to hurtful dyes, 
I felt easy to wear my garments heretofore made; and so continued 
about nine months. Then I thought of getting a hat the natural 
colour of the furr; but the apprehension of being looked upon as 
one affecting singularity, felt uneasy to me: and here I had occasion 



136 AMERICAN PROSE 



to consider, that things, though small in themselves, being clearly 
enjoined by divine authority, became great things to us; and I 
trusted that the Lord would support me in the trials that might attend 
singularity, while that singularity was only for his sake: on this 
account, I was under close exercise of mind in the time of our General 
spring meeting 1762, greatly desiring to be rightly directed; when 
being deeply bowed in spirit before the Lord, I was made willing to 
submit to what I apprehended was required of me; and when I 
returned home, got a hat of the natural colour of the furr. 

In attending meetings, this singularity was a trial upon me, and 
more especially at this time, white hats being used by some who were 
fond of following the changeable modes of dress; and as some friends, 
who knew not on what motives I wore it, carried shy of me, I felt my 
way for a time shut up in the exercise of the ministry: and in this con- 
dition, my mind being turned toward my heavenly Father, with fervent 
cries that I might be preserved to walk before him in the meekness 
of wisdom, my heart was often tender in meetings; and I felt an 
inward consolation, which to me was very precious under those 
difficulties. 

I had several dyed garments fit for use, which I believed it best to 
wear, till I had occasion of new ones: and some friends were appre- 
hensive, that my wearing such a hat savoured of an affected singu- 
larity: and such who spake with me in a friendly way, I generally 
informed in a few words, that I believed my wearing it, was not in my 
own will. I had, at times, been sensible, that a superficial friendship 
had been dangerous to me; and many friends being now uneasy with 
me, I had an inclination to acquaint some- with the manner of my 
being led into these things; yet, upon a deeper thought, I was for a 
time most easy to omit it, believing the present dispensation was 
profitable; and trusting, that if I kept my place, the Lord in his own 
time would open the hearts of friends toward me: since which, I have 
had cause to admire his goodness and loving-kindness, in leading 
about and instructing, and opening and enlarging my heart in some 
of our meetings. 

A SPIRITUAL VISION 

In a time of sickness with the pleurisy, a little upward of two 
years and a half ago, I was brought so near the gates of death, that 



JOHN WOOLMAN 137 



I forgot my name: being then desirous to know who I was, I saw a 
mass of matter of a dull gloomy colour, between the south and the 
east; and was informed, that this mass was human beings in as great 
misery as they could be, and live; and that I was mixed in with them, 
and that henceforth I might not consider myself as a distinct or 
separate being. In this state I remained several hours. I then 
heard a soft melodious voice, more pure and harmonious than any 
I had "heard with my ears before; I believed it was the voice of an 
angel, who spake to the other angels: the words were — John Woolman 
is dead. I soon remembered that I once was John Woolman; and 
being assured that I was alive in the body, I greatly wondered what 
that heavenly voice could mean. 

I believed, beyond doubting, that it was the voice of an holy 
angel; but, as yet, it was a mystery to me. 

I was then carried in spirit to the mines, where poor oppressed 
people were digging rich treasures for those called christians; and 
heard them blaspheme the name of Christ, at which I was grieved; 
for his name to me was precious. 

Then I was informed, that these heathen were told, that those 
who oppressed them were the followers of Christ; and they said 
amongst' themselves, If Christ directed them to use us in this sort, then 
Christ is a cruel tyrant. 

All this time the song of the angel remained a mystery; and in 
the morning, my dear wife and some others coming to my bedside, 
I asked them, if they knew who I was: and they telling me, I was 
John Woolman, thought I was light-headed: for I told them not what 
the angel said, nor was I disposed to talk much to any one; but was 
very desirous to get so deep, that I might understand this mystery. 

My tongue was often so dry, that I could not speak till I had 
moved it about and gathered some moisture, and as I lay still for a 
time, at length I felt divine power prepare my mouth that I could 
speak; and then I said, "I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless 
I live; yet not I, but Christ that liveth in me: and the life I now live 
in the flesh, is by faith in the Son of God, who loved me, and gave 
himself for me." 

Then the mystery was opened; and I perceived there was joy in 
heaven over a sinner who had repented; and that that language (John 
Woolman is dead) meant no more than the death of my own will. 



138 AMERICAN PROSE 



J. HECTOR ST. JOHN CREVECCEUR 

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN FARMER 

FROM 
LETTER m. WHAT IS AN AMERICAN? 

I wish I could be acquainted with the feelings and thoughts which 
must agitate the heart and present themselves to the mind of an 
enlightened Englishman, when he first lands on this continent. He 
must greatly rejoice that he lived at a time to see this fair country 
discovered and settled; he must necessarily feel a share of national 
pride, when he views the chain of settlements which embellishes these 
extended shores. When he says to himself, this is the work of my 
countrymen, who, when convulsed by factions, afflicted by a variety 
of miseries and wants, restless and impatient, took refuge here. They 
brought along with them their national genius, to which they prin- 
cipally owe what liberty they enjoy, and what substance they possess. 
Here he sees the industry of his native country displayed in a new 
manner, and traces in their works the embrios of all the arts, sciences, 
and ingenuity which flourish in Europe. Here he beholds fair cities, 
substantial villages, extensive fields, an immense country filled with 
decent houses, good roads, orchards, meadows, and bridges, where 
an hundred years ago all was wild, woody and uncultivated! What 
a train of pleasing ideas this fair spectacle must suggest; it is a pros- 
pect which must inspire a good citizen with the most heartfelt pleasure. 
The difficulty consists in the manner of viewing so extensive a scene. 
He is arrived on a new continent; a modern society offers itself to 
his contemplation, different from what he had hitherto seen. It is not 
composed, as in Europe, of great lords who possess every thing, and 
of a herd of people who have nothing. Here are no aristocratical 
families, no courts, no kings, no bishops, no ecclesiastical dominion, 
no invisible power giving to a few a very visible one; no great manu- 
facturers employing thousands, no great refinements of luxury. 
The rich and the poor are not so far removed from each other as they 
are in Europe. Some few towns excepted, we are all tillers of the 
earth, from Nova Scotia to West Florida. We are a people of culti- 
vators, scattered over an immense territory, communicating with 
each other by means of good roads and navigable rivers, united by 



/. HECTOR ST. JOHN CREVECCEUR 139 

the silken bands of mild government, all respecting the laws, without 
dreading their power, because they are equitable. We are all ani- 
mated with the spirit of an industry which is unfettered and unre- 
strained, because each person works for himself. If he travels 
through our rural districts he views not the hostile castle, and the 
haughty mansion, contrasted with the clay-built hut and miserable 
cabbirv-where cattle and men help to keep each other warm, and 
dwell in meanness, smoke, and indigence. A pleasing uniformity of 
decent competence appears throughout our habitations. The mean- 
est of our log-houses is a dry and comfortable habitation. Lawyer 
or merchant are the fairest titles our towns afford; that of a farmer 
is the only appellation of the rural inhabitants of our country. It 
must take some time ere he can reconcile himself to our dictionary, 
which is but short in words of dignity, and names of honour. There, 
on a Sunday, he sees a congregation of respectable farmers and their 
wives, all clad in neat homespun, well mounted, or riding in their 
own humble waggons. There is not among them an esquire, saving 
the unlettered magistrate. There he sees a parson as simple as his 
flock, a farmer who does not riot on the labour of others. We have 
no princes, for whom we toil, starve, and bleed: we are the most 
perfect society now existing in the world. Here man is free as he 
ought to be; nor is this pleasing equality so transitory as many others 
are. Many ages will not see the shores of our great lakes replenished 
with inland nations, nor the unknown bounds of North America 
entirely peopled. Who can tell how far it extends ? Who can tell 
the millions of men whom it will feed and contain ? for no European 
foot has as yet travelled half the extent of this mighty continent ! 

The next wish of this traveller will be to know whence came all 
these people ? they are a mixture of English, Scotch, Irish, French, 
Dutch, Germans, and Swedes. From this promiscuous breed, that 
race now called Americans have arisen. The eastern provinces must 
indeed be excepted, as being the unmixed descendents of Englishmen. 
I have heard many wish that they had been more intermixed also: 
for my part, I am no wisher, and think it much better as it has hap- 
pened. They exhibit a most conspicuous figure in this great and 
variegated picture; they too enter for a great share in the pleasing 
perspective displayed in these thirteen provinces. I know it is 
fashionable to reflect on them, but I respect them for what they have 



I 4 AMERICAN PROSE 



done; for the accuracy and wisdom with, which they have settled 
their territory; for the decency of their manners; for their early love 
of letters; their ancient college, the first in this hemisphere; for their 
industry; which to me who am but a farmer, is the criterion of every- 
thing. There never was a people, situated as they are, who with so 
ungrateful a soil have done more in so short a time. Do you think 
that the monarchical ingredients which are more prevalent in other 
governments, have purged them from all foul stains ? Their histories 
« assert the contrary. 

In this great American asylum, the poor of Europe have by some 
means met together, and in consequence of various causes; to what 
purpose should they ask one another what countrymen they are? 
Alas, two thirds of them had no country. Can a wretch who wanders 
about, who works and starves, whose life is a continual scene of sore 
affliction or pinching penury; can that man call England or any other 
kingdom his country ? A country that had no bread for him, whose 
fields procured him no harvest, who met with nothing but the frowns 
of the rich, the severity of the laws, with jails and punishments; who 
owned not a single foot of the extensive surface of this planet ? No! 
urged by a variety of motives, here they came. Every thing has 
tended to regenerate them; new laws, a new mode of living, a new 
social system; here they are become men: in Europe they were as 
so many useless plants, wanting vegitative mould, and refreshing 
showers; they withered, and were mowed down by want, hunger, 
and war; but now by the power of transplantation, like all other 
plants they have taken root and flourished! Formerly they were 
not numbered in any civil lists of their country, except in those of 
the poor; here they rank as citizens. By what invisible power has 
this surprising metamorphosis been performed? By that of the 
laws and that of their industry. The laws, the indulgent laws, pro- 
tect them as they arrive, stamping on them the symbol of adoption; 
they receive ample rewards for their labours; these accumulated 
rewards procure them lands; those lands confer on them the title of 
freemen, and to that title every benefit is affixed which men can 
possibly require. This is the great operation daily performed by our 
laws. From whence proceed these laws? From our government. 
Whence the government ? It is derived from the original genius and 
strong desire of the people ratified and confirmed by the crown. 



/. HECTOR ST. JOHN CREVECCEUR 141 

This is the great chain which links us all, this is the picture which 
every province exhibits, Nova Scotia excepted. There the crown 
has done all; either there were no people who had genius, or it was 
not much attended to : the consequence is, that the province is very 
thinly inhabited indeed; the power of the crown in conjunction 
with the musketos has prevented men from settling there. Yet some 
parts of H flourished once, and it contained a mild harmless set of 
people. But for the fault of a few leaders, the whole were banished. 
The greatest political error the crown ever committed in America, 
was to cut off men from a country which wanted nothing but men! 
What attachment can a poor European emigrant have for a 
country where he had nothing ? The knowledge of the language, the 
love of a few kindred as poor as himself, were the only cords that tied 
him: his country is now that which gives him land, bread, protection, 
and consequence: Ubi panis ibi patria, is the motto of all emigrants. 
What then is the American, this new man ? He is either an European, 
or the descendant of an European, hence that strange mixture of 
blood, which you will find in no other country. I could point out 
to you a family whose grandfather was an Englishman, whose wife 
was Dutch, whose son married a French woman, and whose present 
four sons have now four wives of different nations. He is an Ameri- 
can, who leaving behind him all his ancient prejudices and manners, 
receives new ones from the new mode of life he has embraced, the 
new government he obeys, and the new rank he holds. He becomes 
an American by being received in the broad lap of our great Alma 
Mater. Here individuals of all nations are melted into a new race 
of men, whose labours and posterity will one day cause great changes 
in the world. Americans are the western pilgrims, who are carrying 
along with them that great mass of arts, sciences, vigour, and indus- 
try which began long since in the east; they will finish the great circle. 
The Americans were once scattered all over Europe; here they are 
incorporated into one of the finest systems of population which has 
ever appeared, and which will hereafter become distinct by the power 
of the different climates they inhabit. The American ought there- 
fore to love this country much better than that wherein either he 
or his forefathers were born. Here the rewards of his industry follow 
with equal steps the progress of his labour; his labour is founded on 
the basis of nature, self-interest; can it want a stronger allurement ? 



142 AMERICAN PROSE 



Wives and children, who before in vain demanded of him a morsel of 
bread, now, fat and frolicsome, gladly help their father to clear those 
fields whence exuberant crops are to arise to feed and to clothe them 
all; without any part being claimed, either by a despotic prince, a 
rich abbot, or a mighty lord. Here religion demands but little of 
him; a small voluntary salary to the minister, and gratitude to God; 
can he refuse these? The American is a new man, who acts upon 
new principles; he must therefore entertain new ideas, and form new 
opinions. From involuntary idleness, servile dependence, penury, 
and useless labour, he has passed to toils of a very different nature, 
rewarded by ample subsistence. — This is an American. 

LETTER X. ON SNAKES; AND ON THE HUMMING BIRD. 

Why would you prescribe this task; you know that what we 
take up ourselves seems always lighter than what is imposed on us 
by others. You insist on my saying something about our snakes; 
and in relating what I know concerning them, were it not for two 
singularities, the one- of which I saw, and the other I received from 
an eye-witness, I should have but very little to observe. The south- 
ern provinces are the countries where nature has formed the greatest 
variety of alligators, snakes, serpents; and scorpions, from the 
smallest size, up to the pine barren, the largest species known here. 
We have but two, whose stings are mortal, which deserve to be men- 
tioned; as for the black one, it is remarkable for nothing but its 
industry, agility, beauty, and the art of inticing birds by the power of 
its eyes. I admire it much, and never kill it, though its formidable 
length and appearance often get the better of the philosophy of some 
people, particularly of Europeans. The most dangerous one is the 
pilot, or copperhead; for the poison of which no remedy has yet been 
discovered. It bears the first name because it always precedes the 
rattlesnake; that is, quits its state of torpidity in the spring a week 
before the other. It bears the second name on account of its head 
being adorned with many copper-coloured spots. It lurks in rocks 
near the water, and is extremely active and dangerous. Let man 
beware of it! I have heard only of one person who was stung by a 
copperhead in this country. The poor wretch instantly swelled in 
a most dreadful manner; a multitude of spots of different hues 



/. HECTOR ST. JOHN CREVECCEUR 143 

alternately appeared and vanished, on different parts of his body; 
his eyes were filled with madness and rage, he cast them on all present 
with the most vindictive looks: he thrust out his tongue as the 
snakes do; he hissed through his teeth with inconceivable strength, 
and became an object of terror to all bye-standers. To the lividness 
of a corpse"he united the desperate force of a maniac; they hardly 
were able to fasten him, so as to guard themselves from his attacks; 
when in the space of two hours death relieved the poor wretch from 
his struggles, and the spectators from their apprehensions. The 
poison of the rattle-snake is not mortal in so short a space, and hence 
there is more time to procure relief; we are acquainted with several 
antidotes with which almost every family is provided. They are 
extremely inactive, and if not touched, are perfectly inoffensive. 
I once saw, as I was travelling, a great cliff which was full of them; 
I handled several, and they appeared to be dead; they were all 
entwined together, and thus they remain until the return of the sun. 
I found them out, by following the track of some wild hogs which 
had fed on them; and even the Indians often regale on them. When 
they find them asleep, they put a small forked stick over their necks, 
which they keep immoveably fixed on the ground; giving the snake 
a piece of leather to bite: and this they pull back several times with 
great force, until they observe their two poisonous fangs tome out. 
Then they cut off the head, skin the body, and cook it as we do eels; 
and their flesh is extremely sweet and white. I once saw a tamed one, 
as gentle as you can possibly conceive a reptile to be; it took to the 
water and swam whenever it pleased; and when the boys to whom it 
belonged called it back, their summons was readily obeyed. It had 
been deprived of its fangs by the preceding method ; they often stroked 
it with a soft brush, and this friction seemed to cause the most pleasing 
sensations, for it would turn on its back to enjoy it, as a cat does 
before the fire. One of this species was the cause, some years ago, 
of a most deplorable accident which I shall relate to you, as I had it 
from the widow and mother of the victims. A Dutch farmer of the 
Minisink went to mowing, with his negroes, in his boots, a precaution 
used to prevent being stung. Inadvertently he trod on a snake, 
which immediately flew at his legs; and as it drew back in order to 
renew its blow, one of his negroes cut it in two with his scythe. They 
prosecuted their work, and returned home; at night the farmer 



I 4 4 AMERICAN PROSE 



pulled off his boots and went to bed; and was soon after attacked with 
a strange sickness at his stomach; he swelled, and before a physician 
could be sent for, died. The sudden death of this man did not cause 
much inquiry; the neighbourhood wondered, as is usual in such cases, 
and without any further examination the corpse was buried. A few 
days after, the son put on his father's boots, and went to the meadow; 
at night he pulled them off, went to bed, and was attacked with the 
same symptoms about the same time, and died in the morning. A 
little before he expired the doctor came, but was not able to assign 
what could be the cause of so singular a disorder; however, rather 
than appear wholly at a loss before the country* people, he pronounced 
both father and son to have been bewitched. Some weeks after, the 
widow sold all the moveables for the benefit of the younger children; 
and the farm was leased. One of the neighbours, who bought the 
boots, presently put them on, and was attacked in the same manner 
as the other two had been; but this man's wife being alarmed by 
what had happened in the former family, dispatched one of her 
negroes for an eminent physician, who fortunately having heard 
something of the dreadful affair, guessed at the cause, applied oil, 
&c. and recovered the man. The boots which had been so fatal, were 
then carefully examined; and he found that the two fangs of the 
snake had been left in the leather, after being wrenched out of their 
sockets by the strength with which the snake had drawn back its 
head. The bladders which contained the poison, and several of the 
small nerves were still fresh, and adhered to the boot. The unfortu- 
nate father and son had been poisoned by pulling off these boots, in 
which action they imperceptibly scratched their legs with the points 
of the fangs, through the hollow of which, some of this astonishing 
poison was conveyed. You have no doubt heard of their rattles, 
if you have not seen them; the only observation I wish to make is, 
that the rattling is loud and distinct when they are angry; and on the 
contrary, when pleased, it sounds like a distant trepidation, in which 
nothing distinct is heard. In the thick settlements, they are now 
become very scarce; for wherever they are met with, open war is 
declared against them; so that in a few years there will be none left 
but on our mountains. The black snake on the contrary, always 
diverts me because it excites no idea of danger. Their swiftness is 
astonishing; they will sometimes equal that of an horse; at other 



/. HECTOR ST. JOHN CREVECCEUR 145 

times they will climb up trees in quest of our tree toads; or glide on 
the ground at full length. On some occasions they present them- 
selves half in the reptile state, half erect; their eyes and their heads 
in the erectj>osture, appear to great advantage: the former display 
a fire which I have often admired, and it is by these they are enabled 
to fascinate birds and squirrels. When they have fixed their eyes 
on an animal, they become immoveable; only turning their head 
sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left, but still with their 
sight invariably directed to the object. The distracted victim, 
instead of flying its enemy, seems to be arrested by some invincible 
power; it screams; now approaches, and then recedes; and after 
skipping about with unaccountable agitation, finally rushes into the 
jaws of the snake, and is swallowed, as soon as it is covered with 
a slime or glue to make it slide easily down the throat of the 
devourer. 

One anecdote I must relate, the circumstances of which are as true 
as they are singular. One of my constant walks when I am at leisure, 
is in my lowlands, where I have the pleasure of seeing my cattle, 
horses, and colts. Exuberant grass replenishes all my fields, the 
best representative of our wealth; in the middle of that track I have 
cut a ditch eight feet wide, the banks of which nature adorns every 
spring with the wild salendine, and other flowering weeds, which 
on these luxuriant grounds shoot up to a great height. Over this 
ditch I have erected a bridge, capable of bearing a loaded waggon; 
on each side I carefully sow every year, some grains of hemp, which 
rise to the height of fifteen feet, so strong and so full of limbs as to 
resemble young trees: I once ascended one of them four feet above 
the ground. These produce natural arbours, rendered often still 
more compact by the assistance of an annual creeping plant which we 
call a vine, that- never fails to entwine, itself among their branches, 
and always produces a very desirable shade. From this simple grove 
I have amused myself an hundred times in observing the great number 
of humming birds with which our country abounds: the wild blos- 
soms every where attract the attention of these birds, which like 
bees subsist by suction. From this retreat I distinctly watch them 
in all their various attitudes; but their flight is so rapid, that you 
cannot distinguish the motion of their wings. On this little bird 
nature has profusely lavished her most splendid colours; the most 



146 AMERICAN PROSE 



perfect azure, the most beautiful gold, the most dazzling red, are for 
ever in contrast, and help to embellish the plumes of his majestic 
head. The richest pallet of the most luxuriant painter, could never 
invent any thing to be compared to the variegated tints, with which 
this insect bird is arrayed. Its bill is as long and as sharp as a coarse 
sewing needle; like the bee, nature has taught it to find out in the 
calix of flowers and blossoms, those mellifluous particles that serve 
it for sufficient food; and yet it seems to leave them untouched, 
undeprived of any thing that our eyes can possibly distinguish. 
When it feeds, it appears as if immoveable, though continually on 
the wing; and sometimes, from what motives I know not, it will tear 
and lacerate flowers into a hundred pieces: for, strange to tell, they 
are the most irascible of the feathered tribe. Where do passions 
find room in so diminutive a body ? They often fight with the fury 
of lions, until one of the combatants falls a sacrifice and dies. When 
fatigued, it has often perched within a few feet of me, and on such 
favourable opportunities I have surveyed it with the most minute 
attention. Its little eyes appear like diamonds, reflecting light on 
every side: most elegantly finished in all parts it is a miniature work 
of our great parent; who seems to have formed it the smallest, and 
at the same time the most beautiful of the winged species. 

As I was one day sitting solitary and pensive in my primitive 
arbour, my attention was engaged by a strange sort of rustling noise 
at some paces distant. I looked all around without distinguishing 
any thing, until I climbed one of my great hemp stalks; when to my 
astonishment, I beheld two snakes of considerable length, the one 
pursuing the other with great celerity through a hemp stubble field. 
The aggressor was of the black kind, six feet long; the fugitive was 
a water snake, nearly of equal dimensions. They soon met, and in 
the fury of their first encounter, they appeared in an instant firmly 
twisted together; and whilst their united tails beat the ground, they 
mutually tried with open jaws to lacerate each other. What a fell 
aspect did they present! their heads were compressed to a very small 
size, their eyes flashed fire; and after this conflict had lasted about 
five minutes, the second found means to disengage itself from the 
first, and hurried toward the ditch. Its antagonist instantly assumed 
a new posture, and half creeping and half erect, with a majestic 
mein, overtook and attacked the other again, which placed itself in 



/. HECTOR ST. JOHN CREVECCEUR 147 

the same attitude, and prepared to resist. The scene was uncommon 
and beautiful; for thus opposed they fought with their jaws, biting 
each other with the utmost rage; but notwithstanding this appear- 
ance of mutuaJtourage and fury, the water snake still seemed desirous 
of retreating toward the ditch, its natural element. This was no 
sooner perceived by the keen-eyed black one, than twisting its tail 
twice round a stalk of hemp, and seizing its adversary by the throat, 
not by means of its jaws, but by twisting its own neck twice round 
that of the water snake, pulled it back from the ditch. To prevent 
a defeat the latter took hold likewise of a stalk on the bank, and by 
the acquisition of that point of resistance became a match for its 
fierce antagonist. Strange was this to behold; two great snakes 
strongly adhering to the ground mutually fastened together by means 
of the writhings which lashed them to each other, and stretched at 
their full length, they pulled but pulled in vain; and in the moments 
of greatest exertions that part of their bodies which was entwined, 
seemed extremely small, while the rest appeared inflated, and now 
and then convulsed with strong undulations, rapidly following each 
other. Their eyes seemed on fire, and ready to start out of their 
heads; at one time the conflict seemed decided; the water-snake 
bent itself into two great folds, and by that operation rendered the 
other more than commonly outstretched; the next minute the new 
struggles of the black one gained an unexpected superiority, it 
acquired two great folds likewise, which necessarily extended the 
body of its adversary in proportion as it had contracted its own. 
These efforts were alternate; victory seemed doubtful, inclining 
sometimes to the one side and sometimes to the other; until at last 
the stalk to which the black snake fastened, suddenly gave way, 
and in consequence of this accident they both plunged into the ditch. 
The water did not extinguish their vindictive rage; for by their 
agitations I could trace, though not distinguish their mutual attacks. 
They soon re-appeared on the surface twisted together, as in their 
first onset; but the black snake seemed to retain its wonted supe- 
riority, for its head was exactly fixed above that of the other, which 
it incessantly pressed down under the water, until it was stifled, and 
sunk. The victor no sooner perceived its enemy incapable of farther 
resistance, than abandoning it to the current, it returned on shore 
and disappeared. 



148 AMERICAN PROSE 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 

FROM 

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

A BOYISH LEADER 

At ten years old, I was taken to help my father in his business 
of a tallow-chandler and soap-boiler, a business to which he was not 
bred, but had assumed on his arrival in New England, because he 
found that his dying trade, being in little request, would not main- 
tain his family. Accordingly, I was employed in cutting the wick 
for the candles, filling the molds for cast candles, attending the shop, 
going of errands, &c. 

I disliked the trade, and had a strong inclination to go to sea, 
but my father declared against it; but residing near the water, I was 
much in and on it. I learnt to swim well, and to manage boats; 
and when embarked with other boys, I was commonly allowed to 
govern, especially in any case of difficulty; and upon other occa- 
sions, I was generally the leader among the boys, and sometimes 
led them into scrapes, of which I will mention an instance, as it 
shews an early projecting public spirit, though not then justly 
conducted. 

There was a salt marsh which bounded part of the mill-pond, on 
the edge of which at high water we used to stand to fish for minnows; 
by much trampling we had made it a mere quagmire. My proposal 
was to build a wharf there for us to stand upon, and I shewed my 
comrades a large heap of stones, which were intended for a new house 
near the marsh, and which would very well suit our purpose. Accord- 
ingly, in the evening, when the workmen were gone home, I assembled 
a number of my playfellows, and we worked diligently like so many 
emmets, sometimes two or three to a stone, till we had brought them 
all to make our little wharf. The next morning the workmen were 
surprised, on missing the stones which formed our wharf; inquiry 
was made after the authors of this transfer, we were discovered, com- 
plained of, and corrected by our fathers; and though I demonstrated 
the utility of our work, mine convinced me that, that which was not 
truly honest could not be truly useful. 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 149 

LEARNING TO WRITE 

About this time I met with an odd volume of the Spectator. 
I had never before seen any of them. I bought it, read it over and 
over, and was much delighted with it. I thought the writing excel- 
lent, and wished if possible to imitate it. With that view I took 
some of the papers, and making short hints of the sentiments in each 
sentence, laid them by a few days, and then without looking at the 
book, tried to complete the papers again, by expressing each hinted 
sentiment at length and as fully as it had been expressed before in 
any suitable words that should occur to me. Then I compared my 
Spectator with the original, discovered some of my faults, and cor- 
rected them. But I found I wanted a stock of words, or a readiness 
in recollecting and using them, which I thought I should have acquired 
before that time, if I had gone on making verses; since the continual 
search for words of the same import, but of different lengths, to suit 
the measure, or of different sounds for the rhyme, would have laid 
me under a constant necessity of searching for variety, and also have 
tended to fix that variety in my mind, and make me master of it. 
Therefore I took some of the tales in the Spectator, and turned them 
into~verse: and after a time, when I had pretty well forgotten the prose, 
turned them back again. I also sometimes jumbled my collection 
of hints into confusion, and after some weeks endeavored to reduce 
them into the best order, before I began to form the full sentences 
and complete the subject. This was to teach me method in the 
arrangement of the thoughts. By comparing my work with the 
original, I discovered many faults and corrected them; but I some- 
times had the pleasure to fancy, that in particulars of small conse- 
quence I had been fortunate enough to improve the method or the 
language, and this encouraged me to think, that I might in time come 
to be a tolerable English writer, of which I was extremely ambitious. 
The time I alloted for writing exercises and for reading, was at 
night, or before work began in the morning, or on Sunday, when 
I contrived to be in the printing house, avoiding as much as I could, 
the constant attendance at public worship, which my father used 
to exact from me when I was under his care, and which I still 
continued to consider as a duty, though I could not afford time to 
practise it. 



150 AMERICAN PROSE 



ENTRANCE INTO PHILADELPHIA 

I have been the more particular in this description of my journey, 
and shall be so of my first entry into that city, that you may in your 
mind compare such unlikely beginnings, with the figure I have since 
made there. I was in my working dress, my best clothes coming round 
by sea. I was dirty, from my being so long in the boat : my pockets 
were stuffed out with shirts and stockings, and I knew no one, nor 
where to look for lodging. Fatigued with walking, rowing, and the 
want of sleep, I was very hungry; and my whole stock of cash con- 
sisted in a single dollar, and about a shilling in. copper coin, which 
I gave to the boatmen for my passage. At first they refused it, on 
account of my having rowed, but I insisted on their taking it. Man 
is sometimes more generous when he has little money, than when he 
has plenty; perhaps to prevent his being thought to have but little. 
I walked towards the top of the street, gazing about still in Market- 
street, where I met a boy with bread. I had often made a meal of 
dry bread, and inquiring where he had bought it, I went immediately 
to the baker's he directed me to. I asked for biscuits, meaning such 
as we had at Boston : that sort, it seems, was not made in Philadelphia. 
I then asked for a three-penny loaf, and was told they had none. Not 
knowing the different prices, nor the names of the different sorts of 
bread, I told him to give me three-penny worth of any sort. He 
gave me accordingly three great puffy rolls. I was surprised at the 
quantity, but took it, and having no room in my pockets, walked off 
with a roll under each arm, and eating the other. Thus I went up 
Market-street as far as Fourth-street, passing by the door of Mr. Read, 
my future wife's father; when she, standing at the door, saw me, and 
thought I made, as I certainly did, a most awkward ridiculous 
appearance. Then I turned and went down Chestnut-street and 
part of Walnut-street, eating my roll all the way, and coming round 
found myself again at Market-street wharf, near the boat I came in, 
to which I went for a draught of the river water; and being filled 
with one of my rolls gave the other two to a woman and her child 
that came down the river in the boat with us, and were waiting to 
go farther. Thus refreshed, I walked again up the street, which by 
this time had many clean-dressed people in it, who were all walking 
the same way: I joined them and thereby was led into the great 
meeting house of the Quakers near the market. I sat down among 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 151 

them, and after looking round awhile, and hearing nothing said, being 
very drowsy, through labor and want of rest the preceding night, I fell 
fast asleep, and continued so till the meeting broke up, when some one 
was kind enough to rouse me. This therefore was the first house 
I was in, or slept in, in Philadelphia. 

SUCCESS IN BUSINESS 

I now opened a small stationer's shop: I had in it blanks of all 
kinds; the correctest that ever appeared among us. I was assisted 
in that by my friend Breintnal: I had also paper, parchment, chap- 
men's books, &c. One Whitemash, a compositor I had known in 
London, an excellent workman, now came to me, and worked with 
me constantly and diligently; and I took an apprentice, the son of 
Aquila Rose. 

I began now gradually to pay off the debt I was under for the 
printing house. In order to secure my credit and character as a 
tradesman, I took care not only to be in reality industrious and frugal, 
but to avoid the appearances to the contrary. I dressed plain, and 
was seen at no places of idle diversion: I never went out a fishing or 
shooting: a book indeed sometimes debauched me from my work, 
but that was seldom, was private, and gave no scandal: and, to shew 
that I was not above my business, I sometimes brought home the 
paper I purchased at the stores through the streets on a wheelbarrow. 
Thus being esteemed an industrious, thriving young man, and paying 
duly for what I bought, the merchants who imported stationary 
solicited my custom; others proposed supplying me with books, and 
I went on prosperously. 

RELIGION 

I had been religiously educated as a Presbyterian; but though 
some of the dogmas of that persuasion, such as the eternal decrees of 
God, election, reprobation, &c. appeared to me unintelligible, and I 
early absented myself from the public assemblies of the sect, (Sunday 
being my studying day,) I never was without some religious prin- 
ciples: I never doubted, for instance, the existence of a Deity, that 
he made the world, and governed it by his providence; that the most 
acceptable service of God was the doing good to man; that our souls 
are immortal; and that all crimes will be punished, and virtue 
rewarded, either here or hereafter; these I esteemed the essentials of 



152 AMERICAN PROSE 



every religion, and being to be found in all the religions we had in our 
country, I respected them all, though with different degrees of respect, 
as I found them more or less mixed with other articles, which without 
any tendency to inspire, promote, or confirm morality served prin- 
cipally to divide us, and make us unfriendly to one another. This 
respect to all, with an opinion that the worst had some effects, 
induced me to avoid all discourse that might tend to lessen the good 
opinion another might have of his own religion; and as our province 
increased in people, and new places of worship were continually 
wanted, and generally erected by voluntary contribution, my mite 
for such purpose, whatever might be the sect, was never refused. 

THE PURSUIT OF MORAL PERFECTION 

It was about this time I conceived the bold and arduous project 
if arriving at moral perfection; I wished to live without committing 
%ny fault at any time, and to conquer all that either natural inclina- 
tion, custom, or company might lead me into. As I knew, or thought 
I knew, what was right and wrong, I did not see why I might not 
always do the one and avoid the other. But I soon found I had under- 
taken a task of more difficulty than I had imagined : while my attention 
was taken up, and care employed in guarding against one fault, I was 
often surprised by another: habit took the advantage of inattention; 
inclination was sometimes too strong for reason. 1 concluded at 
length that the mere speculative conviction, that it was our interest 
to be completely virtuous, was not sufficient to prevent our slipping; 
and that the contrary habits must be broken, and good ones acquired 
and established, before we can have any dependance on a steady 
uniform rectitude of conduct. For this purpose I therefore tried the 
following method. 

In the various enumerations of the moral virtues I had met with 
in my reading, I found the catalogue more or less numerous, as differ- 
ent writers included more or fewer ideas under the same name. 
Temperance for example, was by some confined to eating and drinking; 
while by others it was extended to mean the moderating every other 
pleasure, appetite, inclination, or passion, bodily or mental, even to 
our avarice and ambition. I proposed to myself, for the sake of 
clearness, to use rather more names, with fewer ideas annexed to 
each, than a few names with more ideas; and I included under thir- 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 153 

teen names of virtues, all that at that time occurrred to me as neces- 
sary or desirable; ancfannexed to each a short precept, which fully 
expressed the extent I gave to its meaning. 

These names of virtues, with their precepts, were; 

1. TEMPERANCE.— Eat not to dulness: drink not to elevation. 

2. SILENCE. — Speak not but what may benefit others or your- 
self: avoid trifling conversation. 

3. ORDER. — Let all your things have their places: let each 
part of your business have its time. 

4. RESOLUTION.— Resolve to perform what you ought: per- 
form without fail what you resolve. 

5. FRUGALITY. — Make no expense but to do good to others 
or yourself: i.e. waste nothing. 

6. INDUSTRY. — Lose no time: be always employed in some- 
thing useful: cut off all unnecessary actions. 

7. SINCERITY.— Use no hurtful deceit: think innocently and 
justly: and, if you speak, speak accordingly. 

8. JUSTICE.— Wrong none by doing injuries, or omitting the 
benefits that are your duty. 

9. MODERATION. — A void extremes: forbear resenting injuries 
so much as you think they deserve. 

10. CLEANLINESS.— Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, 
clothes, or habitation. 

n. TRANQUILLITY.— Be not disturbed at trifles, nor at acci- 
dents common or unavoidable. 

12. CHASTITY.—. . . . 

13. HUMILITY. — Imitate Jesus and Socrates. 

My intention being to acquire the habitude of all these virtues, 
I judged it would be well not to distract my attention by attempting 
the whole at once, but to fix it on one of them at a time; and when 
I should be master of that, then to proceed to another; and so on 
till I should have gone through the thirteen: and as the previous 
acquisition of some, might facilitate the acquisition of certain others, 
I arranged them with that view as they stand above. Temperance 
first, as it tends to procure that coolness and clearness of head, which 
is so necessary where constant vigilance was to be kept up, and a 
guard maintained against the unremitting attraction of ancient habits 
and the force of perpetual temptations. This being acquired and 



154 AMERICAN PROSE 



established, Silence would be more easy; and my desire being to gain 
knowledge at the same time that I improved in virtue; and con- 
considering that in conversation it was obtained rather by the use 
of the ear than of the tongue, and therefore wishing to break a habit 
I was getting into of prattling, punning, and jesting, (which only made 
me acceptable to trifling company) I gave Silence the second place. 
This and the next, Order, I expected would allow me more time for 
attending to my project and my studies. Resolution once become 
habitual, would keep me firm in my endeavors to obtain all the sub- 
sequent virtues. Frugality and Industry relieving me from my remain- 
ing debt, and producing affluence and independence, would make more 
easy the practice of Sincerity and Justice, &c. &c. Conceiving then, 
that agreeably to the advice of Pythagoras in his Golden Verses, 
daily examination would be necessary; I contrived the following 
method for conducting that examination. 

I made a little book, in which I allotted a page for each of the 
virtues. I ruled each page with red ink, so as to have seven columns, 
one for each day of the week, marking each column with a letter for 
the day. I crossed these columns with thirteen red lines, marking 
the beginning of each line with the first letter of one of the virtues; 
on which line, and in its proper column, I might mark by a little 
black spot, every fault I found upon examination to have been com- 
mitted respecting that virtue, upon that day 

I determined to give a week's strict attention to each of the 
virtues successively. Thus in the first week, my great guard was 
to avoid every the least offence against Temperance; leaving the 
other virtues to their ordinary chance, only marking every evening 
the faults of the day. Thus, if in the first week I could keep my first 
line marked T. clear of spots, I supposed the habit of that virtue 
so much strengthened, and its opposite weakened, that I might venture 
extending my attention to include the next; and for the following 
week keep both lines clear of spots. Proceeding thus to the last, 
I could get through a course complete in thirteen weeks, and four 
courses in a year. And like him who having a garden to weed, does 
not attempt to eradicate all the bad herbs at once, (which would 
exceed his reach and his strength,) but works on one of the beds at 
a time, and having accomplished the first, proceeds to a second; so 
I should have (I hoped) the encouraging pleasure, of seeing on my 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 155 

pages the progress made in virtue, by clearing successively my lines 
of their spots; till in the end, by a number of courses, I should be 
happy in viewing a clean book, after a thirteen weeks' daily exam- 
ination 

I entered upon the execution of this plan for self-examination, 
and continued it with occasional intermissions for some time. I was 
surprised to find myself so much fuller of faults than I had imagined; 
but I had the satisfaction of seeing them diminish. To avoid the 
trouble of renewing now and then my little book, which by scraping 
out the marks on the paper of old faults to make room for new ones 
in a new course, became full of holes, I transformed my tables and 
precepts to the ivory leaves of a memorandum book, on which the 
lines were drawn with red ink, that made a durable stain; and on 
those lines I marked my faults with a black lead pencil; which marks 
I could easily wipe out with a wet sponge. After a while I went 
through one course only in a year; and afterwards only one in several 
years; till at length I omitted them entirely, being employed in 
voyages and business abroad, with a multiplicity of affairs, that 
interfered; but I always carried my little book with me. 

whitefield 's eloquence 
Mr. Whitefield, on leaving us, went preaching all the way through 
the colonies to Georgia. The settlement of that province had lately 
been begun, but instead of being made with hardy industrious hus- 
bandmen, accustomed to labor, the only people fit for such an enter- 
prise, it was with families of broken shopkeepers, and other insolvent 
debtors; many of indolent and idle habits, taken out of the jails, who 
being set down in the woods, unqualified for clearing land, and unable 
to endure the hardships of a new settlement, perished in numbers, 
leaving many helpless children unprovided for. The sight of their 
miserable situation inspired the benevolent heart of Mr. Whitefield, 
with the idea of building an orphan-house there, in which they might 
be supported and educated. Returning northward, he preached up 
this charity, and made large collections: for his eloquence had a 
wonderful power over the hearts and purses of his hearers, of which 
I myself was an instance. I did not disapprove of the design, but as 
Georgia was then destitute of materials and workmen, and it was 
proposed to send them from Philadelphia at a great expense, I thought 



156 AMERICAN PROSE 



it would have been better to have built the house at Philadelphia and 
brought the children to it. This I advised, but he was resolute in his 
first project, rejected my counsel, and I therefore refused to con- 
tribute. I happened soon after to attend one of his sermons, in 
the course of which, I perceived he intended to finish with a collec- 
tion, and I silently resolved he should get nothing from me: I had 
in my pocket a handful of copper money, three or four silver dollars, 
and five pistoles in gold; as he proceeded I began to soften, and 
concluded to give the copper. Another stroke of his oratory made 
me ashamed of that, and determined me to give the silver; and he 
finished so admirably, that I emptied my pocket wholly into the 
collector's dish, gold and all! 

BENEVOLENT CUNNING 

In 1751, Dr. Thomas Bond, a particular friend of mine, conceived 
the idea of establishing an hospital in Philadelphia, (a very beneficent 
design, which has been ascribed to me, but was originally and truly 
his) for the reception and cure of poor sick persons, whether inhabit- 
ants of the province or strangers. He was zealous and active in 
endeavoring to procure subscriptions for it; but the proposal being 
a novelty in America, and at first not well understood, he met but 
with little success. At length he came to me with the compliment, 
that he found there was no such a thing as carrying a public-spirited 
project through without my being concerned in it. "For," said he, 
"I am often asked by those to whom I propose subscribing, Have 
you consulted Franklin on this business? And what does he think of 
it? And when I tell them that I have not, (supposing it rather out 
of your line) they do not subscribe, but say, they will consider it." 
I inquired into the nature and probable utility of the scheme, and 
receiving from him a very satisfactory explanation, I not only sub- 
scribed to it myself, but engaged heartily in the design of procuring 
subscriptions from others: previous however to the solicitation, I 
endeavored to prepare the minds of the people, by writing on the 
subject in the newspapers, which was my usual custom in such cases, 
but which Dr. Bond had omitted. The subscriptions afterwards 
were more free and generous; but beginning to flag, I saw they would 
be insufficient without some assistance from the assembly, and there- 
fore proposed to petition for it; which was done, The country 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 157 

members did not at first-relish the project: they objected that it 
could only be serviceable to the city, and therefore the citizens alone 
should be at the expense of it; and they doubted whether the citizens 
themselves generally approved of it. My allegation on the contrary, 
that it met with such approbation as to leave no doubt of our being 
able to raise two thousand pounds by voluntary donations, they con- 
sidered as a most extravagant supposition and utterly impossible. 
On this I formed my plan; and asking leave to bring in a bill for 
incorporating the contributors according to the prayer of their 
petition, and granting them a blank sum of money; which leave was 
obtained chiefly on the consideration, that the house could throw the 
bill out if they did not like it, I drew it so as to make the important 
clause a conditional one; viz. "And be it enacted by the authority 
aforesaid, that when the said contributors shall have met and chosen 
their managers and treasurer, and shall have raised by their con- 
tributions a capital stock of two thousand pounds value, (the yearly 
interest of which is to be applied to the accommodation of the sick 
poor in the said hospital, and of charge for diet, attendance, advice, 
and medicines,) and shall make the same appear to the satisfaction of the 
speaker of the Assembly for the time being; that then it shall and may 
be lawful for the said speaker, and he is hereby required to sign an 
order on the provincial treasurer, for the payment of two thousand 
pounds in two yearly payments, to the treasurer of the said hospital, 
to be applied to the founding, building, and finishing of the same." 
This condition carried the bill through; for the members who had 
opposed the grant, and now conceived they might have the credit of 
being charitable without the expense, agreed to its passage: and then 
in soliciting subscriptions among the people, we urged the conditional 
promise of the law as an additional motive to give, since every man's 
donation would be doubled: thus the clause worked both ways. 
The subscriptions accordingly soon exceeded the requisite sum, and 
we claimed and received the public gift, which enabled us to carry the 
design into execution. A convenient and handsome building was 
soon erected; the institution has by constant experience been found 
useful, and flourishes to this day; and I do not remember any of my 
political manoeuvres, the success of which at the time gave me more 
pleasure; or wherein, after thinking of it, I more easily excused myself 
for having made some use of cunning. 



158 AMERICAN PROSE 



THE WAY TO WEALTH 

Courteous Reader 

I have heard that nothing gives an Author so great Pleasure, as 
to find his Works respectfully quoted by other learned Authors. 
This Pleasure I have seldom enjoyed; for tho' I have been, if I 
may say it without Vanity, an eminent Author of Almanacks annually 
now a full Quarter of a Century, my Brother Authors in the same 
Way, for what Reason I know not, have ever been very sparing in their 
Applauses, and no other Author has taken the least Notice of me, so 
that did not my Writings produce me some solid Pudding, the great 
Deficiency of Praise would have quite discouraged me. 

I concluded at length, that the People were the best Judges of my 
Merit; for they buy my Works; and besides, in my Rambles, where 
I am not personally known, I have frequently heard one or other of 
my Adages repeated, with, as Poor Richard says, at the End on't; 
this gave me some Satisfaction, as it showed not only that my 
Instructions were regarded, but discovered likewise some Respect for 
my Authority; and I own, that to encourage the Practice of remem- 
bering and repeating those wise Sentences, I have sometimes quoted 
myself with great Gravity. 

Judge, then how much I must have been gratified by an Incident 
I am going to relate to you. I stopt my Horse lately where a great 
Number of People were collected at a Vendue of Merchant Goods. 
The Hour of Sale not being come, they were conversing on the Badness 
of the Times, and one of the Company call'd to a plain clean old Man, 
with white Locks, "Pray, Father Abraham, what think you of the 
Times ? Won't these heavy Taxes quite ruin the Country ? How 
shall we be ever able to pay them ? What would you advise us to ? " 
Father Abraham stood up, and reply'd, "If you'd have my Advice, 
I'll give it you in short, for A Word to the Wise is enough, and many 
Words won't fill a Bushel, as Poor Richard says." They all join'd 
in desiring him to speak his Mind, and gathering round him, he pro- 
ceeded as follows: 

"Friends," says he, "and Neighbours, the Taxes are indeed very 
heavy, and if those laid on by the Government were the only Ones 
we had to pay, we might more easily discharge them; but we have 
many others, and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 150 

twice as much by our Idleness, three times as much by our Pride, and 
four times as much by our Folly; and from these Taxes the Com- 
missioners cannot ease or deliver us by allowing an Abatement. 
However let us hearken to good Advice, and something may be done 
for us; God helps them that help themselves, as Poor Richard says, in 
his Almanack of 1733. 

It would be thought a hard Government that should tax its 
People one-tenth Part of their Time, to be employed in its Service. 
But Idleness taxes many of us much more, if we reckon all that is 
spent in absolute Sloth, or doing of nothing, with that which is spent 
in idle Employments or Amusements, that amount to nothing. Sloth, 
by bringing on Diseases, absolutely shortens Life. Sloth, like Rust, 
consumes faster than Labour wears; while the used Key is always bright, 
as Poor Richard says. But dost thou love Life, then do not squander 
Time, for that's the stuff Life is made of, as Poor Richard says. How 
much more than is necessary do we spend in sleep, forgetting that 
The sleeping Fox catches no Poultry, and that There will be sleeping 
enough in the Grave, as Poor Richard says. 

If Time be of all Things the most precious, wasting of Time must 
be, as Poor Richards says, the greatest Prodigality; since, as he else- 
where tells us, Lost Time is never found again; and what we call Time 
enough, always proves little enough. Let us then up and be doing, 
and doing to the Purpose; so by Diligence shall we do more with less 
Perplexity. Sloth makes all Things difficult, but Industry all easy, 
as Poor Richard says; and He that riseth late must trot all Day, and 
shall scarce overtake his Business at Night; while Laziness travels so 
slowly, that Poverty soon overtakes him, as we read in Poor Richard, 
who adds, Drive thy Business, let not that drive thee; and Early to 
Bed, and early to rise, makes a Man healthy, wealthy, and wise. 

So what signifies wishing and hoping for better Times. We may 
make these Times better, if we bestir ourselves. Industry need not 
wish, as Poor Richard says, and he that lives upon Hope will die fasting. 
There are no Gains without Pains; then Help, Hands, for I have no 
Lands, or if I have, they are smartly taxed. And, as Poor Richard 
likewise observes, He that hath a Trade hath an Estate; and he that 
hath a Calling, hath an Office of Profit and Honour; but then the Trade 
must be worked at, and the Calling well followed, or neither the 
Estate nor the Office will enable us to pay our Taxes. If we are 



!6o AMERICAN PROSE 



industrious, we shall never starve; for, as Poor Richard says, At the 
working Man's House Hunger looks in, but dares not enter. Nor will 
the Bailiff or the Constable enter, for Industry pays Debts, while 
Despair encreaseth them, says Poor Richard. 

What though you have found no Treasure, nor has any rich 
Relation left you a Legacy, Diligence is the Mother of Good-luck as 
Poor Richard says and God gives all Things to Industry. Then plough 
deep, while Sluggards sleep, and you shall have Corn to sell and to keep, 
says Poor Dick. Work while it is called To-day, for you know not 
how much you may be hindered To-morrow, which makes Poor 
Richard say, One to-day is worth two To-morrows, and farther, Have 
you somewhat to do To-morrow, do it To-day. If you were a Servant, 
would you not be ashamed that a good Master should catch you idle ? 
Are you then your own Master, be ashamed to catch yourself idle, as 
Poor Dick says. When there is so much to be done for yourself, 
your Family, your Country, and your gracious King, be up by Peep 
of Day; Let not the Sun look down and say, Inglorious here he lies. 
Handle your Tools without Mittens; remember that The Cat in 
Gloves catches no Mice, as Poor Richard says. 'T is true there is 
much to be done, and perhaps you are weak-handed, but stick to it 
steadily; and you will see great Effects, for Constant Dropping wears 
away Stones, and by Diligence and Patience the Mouse ate in two the 
Cable; and Little Strokes fell great Oaks, as Poor Richard says in his 
Almanack, the Year I cannot just now remember. 

Methinks I hear some of you say, Must a Man afford himself no 
Leisure? I will tell thee, my friend, what Poor Richard says, Employ 
thy Time well, if thou meanest to gain Leisure; and, since thou art 
not sure of a Minute, throw not away an hour. Leisure, is Time for 
doing something useful; this Leisure the diligent Man will obtain, 
but the lazy Man never; so that, as Poor Richard says A Life of 
Leisure and a Life of Laziness are two Things. Do you imagine that 
Sloth will afford you more Comfort than Labour ? No, for as Poor 
Richard says, Trouble springs from Idleness, and grievous Toil from 
needless Ease. Many without Labour, would live by their Wits only, 
but they break for Want of Stock. Whereas Industry gives Comfort, 
and Plenty, and Respect: Fly Pleasures, and they'll follow you. The 
diligent Spinner has a large Shift; and now I have a Sheep and a Cow, 
every Body bids me good Morrow; all which is well said by Poor 
Richard. 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 161 

But with our Industry, we must likewise be steady, settled, and 
careful, and oversee our own Affairs with our own Eyes, and not trust 
too much to others; for, as Poor Richard says 
I never saw an oft-removed Tree, 
Nor yet an oft-removed Family, 
That throve so well as those that settled be. 

x\nd again, Three Removes is as bad as a Fire; and again, Keep thy Shop, 
and thy Shop will keep thee; and again, If you would have your Busi- 
ness done, go; if not, send. And again, 

He that by the Plough would thrive 

Himself must either hold or drive. 

And again, The Eye of a Master will do more Work than both his Hands; 
and again, Want of Care does us more Damage than Want of Knowl- 
edge; and again, Not to oversee Workmen, is to leave them your Purse 
open. Trusting too much to others' Care is the Ruin of many; for, 
as the Almanack says, In the Affairs of this World, Men are saved, not 
by Faith, but by the Want of it; but a Man's own Care is profitable; 
for, saith Poor Dick, Learning is to the Studious, and Riches to the 
Careful, as well as, Power to the Bold, and Heaven to the Virtuous, 
And farther, // you would have a faithful Servant, and one that you 
like, serve yourself. And again, he adviseth to Circumspection and 
Care, even in the smallest Matters, because sometimes, A little Neg- 
lect may breed great Mischief; adding, for want of a Nail the Shoe 
was lost; for want of a Shoe the Horse was lost; and for want of a Horse 
the Rider was lost, being overtaken and slain by the Enemy; all for 
want of Care about a Horse-shoe Nail. 

So much for Industry, my Friends, and Attention to one's own 
Business; but to these we must add Frugality, if we would make our 
Industry more certainly successful. A Man may, if he knows not 
how to save as he gets, keep his Nose all his Life to the Grindstone, and 
die not worth a Groat at last. A fat Kitchen makes a lean Will, as 
Poor Richard says; and 

Many Estates are spent in the Getting, 

Since Women for Tea forsook Spinning and Knitting, 

And Men for Punch forsook Hewing and Splitting. 

If you would be wealthy, says he in another Almanack, think of Saving 
as well as of Getting: The Indies have not made Spain rich, because her 
Outgoes are greater than her Incomes. 



162 AMERICAN PROSE 



Away then with your expensive Follies, and you will not then 
have so much Cause to complain of hard Times, heavy Taxes, and 
chargeable Families; for, as Poor Dick says, 

Women and Wine, Game and Deceit, 
Make the Wealth small and the Wants great. 

And farther, What maintains one Vice, would bring up two Children. 
You may think perhaps, that a little Tea, or a little Punch now and 
then, Diet a little more costly, clothes a little finer, and a little Enter- 
tainment now and then, can be no great Matter; but remember what 
Poor Richard says, Many a Little makes a Mickle; and farther, 
Beware of little Expences; A small Leak will sink a great Ship; and 
again, Who Dainties love, shall Beggars prove; and moreover, Fools 
make Feasts, and wise Men eat them. 

Here you are all got together at this Vendue of Fineries and Knick- 
nacks. You call them Goods; but if you do not take Care, they will 
prove Evils to some of you. You expect they will be sold cheap, and 
perhaps they may for less than they cost; but if you have no Occasion 
for them, they must be dear to you. Remember what Poor Richard 
says; Buy what thou hast no Need of, and ere long thou shall sell thy 
Necessaries. And again, At a great Pennyworth pause a while: He 
means, that perhaps the Cheapness is apparent only, and not Real; 
or the bargain, by straitening thee in thy Business, may do thee more 
Harm than Good. For in another Place he says, Many have been 
ruined by buying good Pennyworths. Again, Poor Richard says, 
't is foolish to lay out Money in a Purchase of Repentance; and yet this 
Folly is practised every Day at Vendues, for want of minding the 
Almanack. Wise Men, as Poor Dick says, learn by others Harms, 
fools scarcely by their own; but felix quern faciunt aliena pericula 
cautum. Many a one, for the Sake of Finery on the Back, have gone 
with a hungry Belly, and half-starved their Families. Silks and 
Sattins, Scarlet and Velvet, as Poor Richard says, put out the Kitchen 
Fire. 

These are not the Necessaries of Life; they can scarcely be called 
the Conveniences; and yet only because they look pretty, how many 
want to have them! The artificial Wants of Mankind thus become 
more numerous than the Natural; and, as Poor Dick says, for one 
poor Person, there are an hundred Indigent. By these, and other 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 1 63 

y-* 

Extravagancies, the Genteel are reduced to poverty, and forced to 
borrow of those whom they formerly despised, but who through 
Industry and Frugality have maintained their Standing; in which 
Case it appears plainly, that A Ploughman on his Legs is higher than 
a Gentleman on his Knees, as Poor Richard says. Perhaps they have 
had a small Estate left them, which they knew not the Getting of; 
they think, 't is Day, and will never be Night; that a little to be spent 
out of so much is not worth minding; a Child and a Fool, as Poor 
Richard says, imagine Twenty shillings and Twenty Years can never 
be spent, but always taking out of the Meal-tub, and never putting in, 
soon comes to the Bottom; as Poor Dick says, When the Well's dry, they 
know the Worth of Water. But this they might have known before, 
if they had taken his Advice; If you would know the Value of Money, 
go and try to borrow some; for, he that goes a borrowing goes a sorrowing; 
and indeed so does he that lends to such People, when he goes to gel. 
it in again. Poor Dick farther advises, and says, 

Fond Pride of Dress is sure a very Curse; 

E'er Fancy you consult, considt your Purse. 

And again, Pride is as loud a Beggar as Want, and a great deal more 
saucy. When you have bought one fine Thing, you must buy ten 
more, that your Appearance may be all of a Piece; but Poor Dick 
says, 'Tis easier to suppress the first Desire, than to satisfy all that follow 
it. And 't is as truly Folly for the Poor to ape the Rich, as for the 
Frog to swell, in order to equal the Ox. 

Great Estates may venture more, 

But little Boats should keep near Shore. 

'T is, however, a Folly soon punished; for, Pride that dines on Vanity, 
sups on Contempt, as Poor Richard says. And in another Place, 
Pride breakfasted with Plenty, dined with Poverty, and supped with 
Infamy. And after all, of what Use is this Pride of Appearance, for 
which so much is risked so much is suffered? It cannot promote 
Health, or ease Pain; it makes no Increase of Merit in the Person, 
it creates Envy, it hastens Misfortune. 

What is a Butterfly ? At best 

He 's but a Caterpillar drest; 

The gaudy Fop 's his Picture just, 

as Poor Richard says. 



1 64 AMERICAN PROSE 



But what Madness must it be to run in Debt for these Super- 
fluities! We are offered, by the Terms of this Vendue, Six Months' 
Credit; and that perhaps has induced some of us to attend it, because 
we cannot spare the ready Money, and hope now to be fine without 
it. But, ah, think what you do when you run in Debt; You give to 
another Power over your Liberty. If you cannot pay at the Time, you 
will be ashamed to see your Creditor; you will be in Fear when you 
speak to him; you will make poor pitiful sneaking Excuses, and by 
Degrees come to lose your Veracity, and sink into base downright 
lying; for, as Poor Richard says The second Vice is Lying, the first is 
running in Debt. And again, to the same Purpose, Lying rides upon 
Debt's Back. Whereas a free-born Englishman ought not to be 
ashamed or afraid to see or speak to any Man living. But Poverty 
often deprives a Man of all Spirit and Virtue: 'T is hard for an empty 
Bag to stand upright, as Poor Richard truly says. 

What would you think of that Prince, or that Government, who 
should issue an Edict forbidding you to dress like a Gentleman or a 
Gentlewoman, on Pain of Imprisonment or Servitude ? Would you 
not say, that you were free, have a Right to dress as you please, and 
that such an Edict would be a Breach of your Privileges, and such a 
Government tyrannical? And yet you are about to put yourself 
under that Tyranny, when you run in Debt for such Dress! Your 
Creditor has Authority, at his Pleasure to deprive you of your Liberty, 
by confining you in Goal for Life, or to sell you for a Servant, if you 
should not be able to pay him! When you have got your Bargain, 
you may, perhaps, think little of Payment; but Creditors, Poor 
Richard tells us, have better Memories than Debtors; and in another 
Place says, Creditors are a superstitious Sect, great Observers of set 
Days and Times. The Day comes round before you are aware, and 
the Demand is made before you are prepared to satisfy it, Or if you 
bear your Debt in Mind, the Term which at first seemed so long, 
will, as it lessens, appear extreamly short. Time will seem to have 
added Wings to his Heels, as well as Shoulders. Those have a 
short Lent, saith Poor Richard, who owe Money to be paid at Easter. 
Then since, as he says, The Borrower is a Slave to the Lender, and the 
Debtor to the Creditor, disdain the Chain, preserve your Freedom; 
and maintain your Independency: Be industrious and free; he frugal 
and free. At present, perhaps, you may think yourself in thriving 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 165 

Circumstances, and that you can bear a little Extravagance without 
Injury; but, 

For Age and Want, save while you may; 
No Morning Sun lasts a whole Day, 

as Poor Richard says. Gain may be temporary and uncertain, but 
ever while you live, Expence is constant and certain; and 't is easier 
to build two Chimnies, than to keep one- in Fuel, as Poor Richard says. 
So, Rather go to Bed supperless than rise in Debt. 

Get what you can, and what you get hold; 

'T is the Stone that will turn all your lead into Gold, 

as Poor Richard says. And when you have got the Philosopher's 
Stone, sure you will no longer complain of bad Times, or the Difficulty 
of paying Taxes. 

This Doctrine, my friends, is Reason and Wisdom; but after all, 
do not depend too much upon your own Industry, and Frugality, and 
Prudence, though excellent Things, for they may all be blasted with- 
out the Blessing of Heaven; and therefore, ask that Blessing humbly, 
and be not uncharitable to those that at present seem to want it, but 
comfort and help them. Remember, Job suffered, and was after- 
wards prosperous. 

And now to conclude, Experience keeps a dear School, but Fools 
will learn in no other, and scarce in that; for it is true, we may give 
Advice, but we cannot give Conduct, as Poor Richard says: However, 
remember this, They that won't be counselled, can't be helped, as Poor 
Richard says; and farther, That, if you will not hear Reason, she'll 
surely rap your Knuckles." 

Thus the old Gentleman ended his Harangue. The People 
heard it, and approved the Doctrine, and immediately practised the 
contrary, just as if it had been a common Sermon; for the Vendue 
opened, and they began to buy extravagantly, notwithstanding, his 
Cautions and their own Fear of Taxes. I found the good Man had 
thoroughly studied my Almanacks, and digested all I had dropt on 
these Topicks during the Course of Five and Twenty Years. The 
frequent Mention he made of me must have tired any one else, but 
my Vanity was wonderfully delighted with it, though I was conscious 



1 66 AMERICAN PROSE 



that not a tenth Part of the Wisdom was my own, which he ascribed 
to me, but rather the Gleanings I had made of the Sense of all Ages 
and Nations. However, I resolved to be the better for the Echo of 
it; and though I had at first determined to buy Stuff for a new Coat 
I went away resolved to wear my old One a little longer. Reader, 
if thou wilt do the same, thy Profit will be as great as mine. I am, 
as ever, thine to serve thee, 

Richard Saunders. 
July 7, 1757. 

THE EPHEMERA 

AN EMBLEM OP HUMAN LIFE 

To Madame Brillon, of Passy 

You may remember, my dear friend, that when we lately spent 
that happy day in the delightful garden and sweet society of the 
Moulin Joly, I stopped a little in one of our walks, and stayed some 
time behind the company. We had been shown numberless skeletons 
of a kind of little fly, called an ephemera, whose successive generations, 
we were told, were bred and expired within the day. I happened to 
see a living company of them on a leaf, who appeared to be engaged in 
conversation. You know I understand all the inferior animal tongues. 
My too great application to the study of them is the best excuse I can 
give for the little progress I have made in your charming language. 
I listened through curiosity to the discourse of these little creatures; 
but as they, in their national vivacity, spoke three or four together, 
I could make but little of their conversation. I found, however, by 
some broken expressions that I heard now and then, they were dis- 
puting warmly on the merit of two foreign musicians, one a cousin, 
the other a moscheto; in which dispute they spent their time, seemingly 
as regardless of the shortness of life as if they had been sure of living 
a month. Happy people! thought I; you are certainly under a wise, 
just, and mild government, since you have no public grievances to 
complain of, nor any subject of contention but the perfections and 
imperfections of foreign music. I turned my head from them to an 
old grey-headed one, who was single on another leaf, and talking 
to himself. Being amused with his soliloquy, I put it down in writing, 
in hopes it will likewise amuse her to whom I am so much indebted 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 167 

for the most pleasing of all amusements, her delicious company and 
heavenly harmony. 

"It was," said he, "the opinion of learned philosophers of our 
race, who lived and flourished long before my time, that this vast 
world, the Moulin Joly, could not itself subsist more than eighteen 
hours; and I think there was some foundation for that opinion, since, 
by the apparent motion of the great luminary that gives life to all 
nature, and which in my time has evidently declined considerably 
towards the ocean at the end of our earth, it must then finish its 
course, be extinguished in the waters that surround us, and leave 
the world in cold and darkness, necessarily producing universal 
death and destruction. I have lived seven of those hours, a great age, 
being no less than four hundred and twenty minutes of time. How 
very few of us continue so long! I have seen generations born, 
flourish, and expire. My present friends are the children and grand- 
children of the friends of my youth, who are now, alas, no more! 
And I must soon follow them; for, by the course of nature, though still 
in health, I cannot expect to live above seven or eight minutes longer. 
What now avails all my toil and labor, in amassing honey-dew on this 
leaf, which I cannot live to enjoy! What the political struggles I 
have been engaged in, for the good of my compatriot inhabitants of 
this bush, or my philosophical studies for the benefit of our race in 
general! for, in politics, what can laws do without morals? Our 
present race of ephemerae will in a course of minutes become cor- 
rupt, like those of other and older bushes, and consequently as 
wretched. And in philosophy how small our progress! Alas! art 
is long, and life is short! My friends would comfort me with the idea 
of a name, they say, I shall leave behind me; and they tell me I have 
lived long enough to nature and to glory. But what will fame be 
to an ephemera who no longer exists? And what will become of 
all history in the eighteenth hour, when the world itself, even the 
whole Moulin Joly, shall come to its end, and be buried in universal 
ruin?" 

To me, after all my eager pursuits, no solid pleasures now remain, 
but the reflection of a long life spent in meaning well, the sensible 
conversation of a few good lady ephemerae, and now and then a kind 
smile and a tune from the ever amiable Brillante. 

B. Feanklin 



168 AMERICAN PROSE 



DIALOGUE BETWEEN FRANKLIN AND THE GOUT 

Midnight, 22 October, 1780. 

Franklin. Eh! Oh! Eh! What have I done to merit these 
cruel sufferings ? 

Gout. Many things; you have ate and drank too freely, and 
too much indulged those legs of yours in their indolence. 

Franklin. Who is it that accuses me ? 

Gout. It is I, even I, the Gout. 

Franklin. What! my enemy in person ? 

Gout. No, not your enemy. 

Franklin. I repeat it; my enemy; for you would not only 
torment my body to death, but ruin my good name; you reproach 
me as a glutton and a tippler; now all the world, that knows me, will 
allow that I am neither the one nor the other. 

Gout. The world may think as it pleases; it is always very 
complaisant to itself, and sometimes to its friends; but I very well 
know that the quantity of meat and drink proper for a man, who 
takes a reasonable degree of exercise, would be too much for another, 
who never takes any. 

Franklin. I take — Eh ! Oh ! — as much exercise — Eh ! — as I can, 
Madam Gout. You know my sedentary state, and on that account, 
it would seem, Madam Gout, as if you might spare me a little, seeing 
it is not altogether my own fault. 

Gout. Not a jot; your rhetoric and your politeness are thrown 
away; your apology avails nothing. If your situation in life is a 
sedentary one, your amusements, your recreations, at least, should be 
active. You ought to walk or ride; or, if the weather prevents 
that, play at billiards. But let us examine your course of life. While 
the mornings are long, and you have leisure to go abroad, what do 
you do? Why, instead of gaining an appetite for breakfast, by 
salutary exercise, you amuse yourself with books, pamphlets, or news- 
papers, which commonly are not worth the reading. Yet you eat 
an inordinate breakfast, four dishes of tea, with cream, and one or 
two buttered toasts, with slices of hung beef, which I fancy are not 
things the most easily digested. Immediately afterward you sit 
down to write at your desk, or converse with persons who apply to 
you on business. Thus the time passes till one without any kind of 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 169 

bodily exercise. But all this I could pardon, in regard, as you say, 
to your sedentary condition. But what is your practice after dinner ? 
Walking in the beautiful gardens of those friends, with whom you 
have dined, would be the choice of men of sense; yours is to be fixed 
down to chess, where you are found engaged for two or three hours! 
This is your perpetual recreation, which is the least eligible of any for 
a sedentary man, because, instead of accelerating the motion of the 
fluids, the rigid attention it requires helps to retard the circulation 
and obstruct internal secretions. Wrapt in the speculations of this 
wretched game, you destroy your constitution. What can be 
expected from such a course of living, but a body replete with stag- 
nant humors, ready to fall a prey to all kinds of dangerous maladies, 
if I, the Gout, did not occasionally bring you relief by agitating those 
humors, and so purifying or dissipating them? If it was in some 
nook or alley in Paris, deprived of walks, that you played awhile at 
chess after dinner, this might be excusable; but the same taste 
prevails with you in Passy, Auteuil, Montmartre, or Sanoy, places 
where there are the finest gardens and walks, a pure air, beautiful 
women, and most agreeable and instructive conversation; all which 
you might enjoy by frequenting the walks. But these are rejected for 
this abominable game of chess. Fie, then, Mr. Franklin! But 
amidst my instructions, I had almost forgot to administer my whole- 
some corrections; so take that twinge, — and that. 

Franklin. Oh! Eh! Oh! Ohhh! As much instruction as you 
please, Madam Gout, and as many reproaches; but pray, Madam, 
a truce with your corrections! 

Gout. No, Sir, no, — I will not abate a particle of what is so 
much for your good, — therefore — 

Franklin. Oh! Ehhh! — It is not fair to say I take no exercise, 
when I do very often, going out to dine and returning in my carriage. 

Gout. That, of all imaginable exercises, is the most slight and 
insignificant, if you allude to the motion of a carriage suspended on 
springs. By observing the degree of heat obtained by different kinds 
of motion, we may form an estimate of the quantity of exercise given 
by each. Thus, for example, if you turn out to walk in winter with 
cold feet, in an hour's time you will be in a glow all over; ride on 
horseback, the same effect will scarcely be perceived by four hours' 
round trotting; but if you loll in a carriage, such as you have 



170 AMERICAN PROSE 



mentioned, you may travel all day, and gladly enter the last inn to warm 
your feet by a fire. Flatter yourself then no longer, that half an 
hour's airing in your carriage deserves the name of exercise. Provi- 
dence has appointed few to roll in carriages, while he has given to all 
a pair of legs, which are machines infinitely more commodious and 
serviceable. Be grateful, then, and make a proper use of yours. 
Would you know how they forward the circulation of your fluids, 
in the very action of transporting you from place to place; observe 
when you walk, that all your weight is alternately thrown from one 
leg to the other; this occasions a great pressure on the vessels of 
the foot, and repels their contents; when relieved, by the weight 
being thrown on the other foot, the vessels of the first are allowed to 
replenish, and, by a return of this weight, this repulsion again suc- 
ceeds; thus accelerating the circulation of the blood. The heat 
produced in any given time, depends on the degree of this accelera- 
tion; the fluids are shaken, the humors attenuated, the secretions 
facilitated, and all goes well; the cheeks are ruddy, and health is 
established. Behold your fair friend at Auteuil; a lady who received 
from bounteous nature more really useful science, than half a dozen 
such pretenders to philosophy as you have been able to extract from 
all your books. When she honors you with a visit, it is on foot. 
She walks all hours of the day, and leaves indolence, and its con- 
comitant maladies, to be endured by her horses. In this see at 
once the preservative of her health and personal charms. But 
when you go to Auteuil, you must have your carriage, though it is 
no further from Passy to Auteuil than from Auteuil to Passy. 

Franklin. Your reasonings grow very tiresome. 

Gout. 1 stand corrected. I will be silent and continue my 
office; take that, and that. 

Franklin. Oh! Ohh! Talk on, I pray you! 

Gout. No, no; I have a good number of twinges for you to-night, 
and you may be sure of some more to-morrow. 

Franklin. What, with such a fever! I shall go distracted. 
Oh! Eh! Can no one bear it for me ? 

Gout. Ask that of your horses; they have served you faithfully. 

Franklin. How can you so cruelly sport with my torments ? 

Gout. Sport! I am very serious. I have here a list of offences 
against your own health distinctly written, and can justify every 
stroke inflicted on you. 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 171 

Franklin. Read it then. 

Gout. It is too long a detail; but I will briefly mention some 
particulars. 

Franklin. Proceed. I am all attention. 

Gout. Do you remember how often you have promised your- 
self, the following morning, a walk in the grove of Boulogne, in the 
garden de la Muette, or in your own garden, and have violated your 
promise, alleging, at one time, it was too cold, at another too warm, 
too windy, too moist, or what else you pleased; when in truth it 
was too nothing, but your insuperable love of ease ? 

Franklin. That I confess may have happened occasionally, 
probably ten times in a year. 

Gout. Your confession is very far short of the truth; the gross 
amount is one hundred and ninety-nine times. 

Franklin. Is it possible ? 

Gout. So possible, that it is fact; you may rely on the accuracy 
of my statement. You know Mr. Brillon's gardens, and what fine 
walks they contain; you know the handsome flight of an hundred 
steps, which lead from the terrace above to the lawn below. You 
have been in the practice of visiting this amiable family twice a 
week, after dinner, and it is a maxim of your own, that "a man may 
take as much exercise in walking a mile, up and down stairs, as in 
ten on level ground." What an opportunity was here for you to have 
had exercise in both these ways! Did you embrace it, and how often ? 

Franklin. I cannot immediately answer that question. 

Gout. I will do it for you; not once. 

Franklin. Not once ? 

Gout. Even so. During the summer you went there at six 
o'clock. You found the charming lady, with her lovely children and 
friends, eager to walk with you, and entertain you with their agreeable 
conversation; and what has been your choice? Why to sit on the 
terrace, satisfying yourself with the fine prospect, and passing your 
eye over the beauties of the garden below, without taking one step 
to descend and walk about in them. On the contrary, you call for 
tea and the chess-board; and lo! you are occupied in your seat till 
nine o'clock, and that besides two hours' play after dinner; and then, 
instead of walking home, which would have bestirred you a little, 
you step into your carriage. How absurd to suppose that all this 
carelessness can be reconcilable with health, without my interposition! 



172 AMERICAN PROSE 



Franklin. I am convinced now of the justness of poor Richard's 
remark, that "Our debts and our sins are always greater than we 
think for." 

Gout. So it is. You philosophers are sages in your maxims, 
and fools in your conduct. 

Franklin. But do you charge among my crimes, that I return 
in a carriage from Mr. Brillon's ? 

Gout. Certainly; for, having been seated all the while, you 
cannot object the fatigue of the day, and cannot want therefore the 
relief of a carriage. 

Franklin. What then would you have me do with my carriage ? 

Gout. Burn it if you choose; you would at least get heat out 
of it once in this way; or, if you dislike that proposal, here 's another 
for you; observe the poor peasants, who work in the vineyards and 
grounds about the villages of Passy, Auteuil, Chaillot, &c; you may 
find every day, among these deserving creatures, four or five old men 
and women, bent and perhaps crippled by weight of years, and too 
long and too great labor. After a most fatiguing day, these people 
have to trudge a mile or two to their smoky huts. Order your coach- 
man to set them down. This is an act that will be good for your 
soul; and, at the same time, after your visit to the Brillons, if you 
return on foot, that will be good for your body. 

Franklin. Ah! how tiresome you are! 

Gout. Well, then, to my office; it should not be forgotten that 
I am your physician. There. 

Franklin. Ohhh! what a devil of a physician! 

Gout. How ungrateful you are to say so! Is it not I who, in 
the character of your physician, have saved you from the palsy, 
dropsy, and apoplexy? one or other of which would have done for 
you long ago, but for me. 

Franklin. I submit, and thank you for the past, but entreat 
the discontinuance of your visits for the future; for, in my mind, one 
had better die than be cured so dolefully. Permit me just to hint, 
that I have also not been unfriendly to you. I never feed physician 
or quack of any kind, to enter the list against you; if then you do 
not leave me to my repose, it may be said you are ungrateful too. 

Gout. I can scarcely acknowledge that as any objection. As 
to quacks, I despise them: they may kill you indeed, but cannot 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 173 

injure me. And, as to regular physicians, they are at last convinced, 
that the gout, in such a subject as you are, is no disease, but a remedy; 
and wherefore cure a remedy ? — but to our business, — there. 

Franklin. Oh! Oh! — for Heaven's sake leave me; and I 
promise faithfully never more to play at chess, but to take exercise 
daily, and live temperately. 

Gout. I know you too well. You promise fair; but, after a few 
months of good health, you will return to your old habits; your fine 
promises will be forgotten like the forms of the last year's clouds. 
Let us then finish the account, and I will go. But I leave you with 
an assurance of visiting you again at a proper time and place; for 
my object is your good, and you are sensible now that I am your 
real friend. 

LETTERS 

TO MRS. JANE MECOM 

New York, 19 April, 1757. 
Dear Sister, 

I wrote a few lines to you yesterday, but omitted to answer yours, 
relating to sister Dowse. As having their own way is one of the great- 
est comforts of life to old people, I think their friends should endeav- 
our to accommodate them in that, as well as in any thing else. When 
they have long lived in a house, it becomes natural to them; they 
are almost as closely connected with it, as the tortoise with his 
shell; they die, if you tear them out of it; old folks and old trees, 
if you remove them, it is ten to one that you kill them; so let 
our good old sister be no more importuned on that head. We 
are growing old fast ourselves, and shall expect the same kind of 
indulgences; if we give them, we shall have a right to receive them in 
our turn. 

And as to her few fine things, I think she is in the right not to 
sell them, and for the reason she gives, that they will fetch but little; 
when that little is spent, they would be of no further use to her; but 
perhaps the expectation of possessing them at her death may make 
that person tender and careful of her, and helpful to her to the amount 
of ten times their value. If so, they are put to the best use they 
possibly can be. 



l 7 4 AMERICAN PROSE 



I hope you visit sister as often as your affairs will permit, and 
afford her what assistance and comfort you can in her present situa- 
tion. Old age, infirmities, and poverty, joined, are afflictions enough. 
The neglect and slights of friends and near relations should never be 
added. People in her circumstances are apt to suspect this sometimes 
without cause; appearances should therefore be attended to, in our 
conduct towards them, as well as realities. I write by this post to 
cousin Williams, to continue his care, which I doubt not he will do. 

We expect to sail in about a week, so that I can hardly hear from 
you again on this side the water; but let me have a line from you 
now and then, while I am in London. I expect to stay there at least 
a twelvemonth. Direct your letters to be left for me at the Penn- 
sylvania Coffee-house, in Birchin Lane, London. My love to all, 
from, dear sister, your affectionate brother, 

B. Franklin 

P.S. April 25th. We are still here, and perhaps may be here 
a week longer. Once more adieu, my dear sister. 

TO BENJAMIN WEBB 

Passy, 22 April, 1784. 
Dear Sir, 

I received yours of the 15th instant, and the memorial it enclosed. 
The account they give of your situation grieves me. I send you 
herewith a bill for ten louis d'ors. I do not pretend to give such a sum; 
I only lend it to you. When you shall return to your country with 
a good character, you cannot fail of getting into some business, that 
will in time enable you to pay all your debts. In that case, when 
you meet with another honest man in similar distress, you must pay 
me by lending this sum to him; enjoining him to discharge the debt 
by a like operation, when he shall be able, and shall meet with such 
another opportunity. I hope it may thus go through many hands, 
before it meets with a knave that will stop its progress. This is a 
trick of mine for doing a deal of good with a little money. I am not 
rich enough to afford much in good works, and so am obliged to be 
cunning and make the most of a little. With best wishes for the suc- 
cess of your memorial, and your future prosperity, I am, dear Sir, 

your most obedient servant, 

B. Franklin 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 175 

TO SAMUEL MATHER 

Passy, 12 May, 1784. 
Reverend Sir, 

I received your kind letter, with your excellent advice to the 
people of the United States, which I read with great pleasure, and 
hope it will be duly regarded. Such writings, though they may be 
lightly passed over by many readers, yet, if they make a deep impres- 
sion on one active mind in a hundred, the effects may be considerable. 
Permit me to mention one little instance, which, though it relates to 
myself, will not be quite uninteresting to you. When I was a boy, 
I met with a book, entitled "Essays to do Good," which I think was 
written by your father. It had been so little regarded by a former 
possessor, that several leaves of it were torn out; but the remainder 
gave me such a turn of thinking, as to have an influence on my con- 
duct through life; for I have always set a greater value on the char- 
acter of a doer of good, than on any other kind of reputation; and if 
I have been, as you seem to think, a useful citizen, the public owes 
the advantage of it to that book. 

You mention your being in your seventy-eighth year; I am in 
my seventy-ninth; we are grown old together. It is now more than 
sixty years since I left Boston, but I remember well both your father 
and grandfather, having heard them both in the pulpit, and seen 
them in their houses. The last time I saw your father was in the 
beginning of 1724, when I visited him after my first trip to Penn- 
sylvania. He received me in his library, and on my taking leave 
showed me a shorter way out of the house through a narrow passage, 
which was crossed by a beam over head. We were still talking as 
I withdrew, he accompanying me behind, and I turning partly towards 
him, when he said hastily, "Stoop, stoop!" I did not understand 
him, till I felt my head hit against the beam. He was a man that 
never missed any occasion of giving instruction, and upon this he 
said to me: "You are young, and have the world before you; stoop as 
you go through it, and you will miss many hard thumps" This advice, 
thus beat into my head, has frequently been of use to me; and I often 
think of it, when I see pride mortified, and misfortunes brought upon 
people by their carrying their heads too high. 

I long much to see again my native place, and to lay my bones 
there. I left it in 1723; I visited it in 1733, 1743, 1753, and 1763. 



176 AMERICAN PROSE 



In 1773 I was in England; in 1775 I had a sight of it, but could not 
enter, it being in possession of the enemy. I did hope to have been 
there in 1783, but could not obtain my dismission from this employ- 
ment here; and now I fear I shall never have that happiness. My 
best wishes however attend my dear country. Esto perpetua. It 
is now blest with an excellent constitution; may it last for ever! 

This powerful monarchy continues its friendship for the United 
States. It is a friendship of the utmost importance to our security, 
and should be carefully cultivated. Britain has not yet well digested 
the loss of its dominion over us, and has still at times some flattering 
hopes of recovering it. Accidents may increase those hopes, and 
encourage dangerous attempts. A breach between us and France 
would infallibly bring the English again upon our backs; and yet 
we have some wild heads among our countrymen, who are endeavour- 
ing to weaken that connexion! Let us preserve our reputation by 
performing our engagements; our credit by fulfilling our contracts; 
and friends by gratitude and kindness; for we know not how soon we 
may again have occasion for all of them. With great and sincere 
esteem, I have the honor to be, &c, g Franklin 



JOHN DICKINSON 

FROM 

LETTERS FROM A FARMER IN PENNSYLVANIA 

LETTER I 

My dear Countrymen, 

I am a Farmer, settled, after a variety of fortunes, near the banks 
of the river Delaware, in the province of Pennsylvania. I received a 
liberal education, and have been engaged in the busy scenes of life; 
but am now convinced, that a man may be as happy without bustle, 
as with it. My farm is small; my. servants are few, and good; I 
have a little money at interest; I wish for no more; my employment 
in my own affairs is easy; and with a contented grateful mind, un- 
disturbed by worldly hopes or fears, relating to myself, I am compleat- 
ing the number of days allotted to me by divine goodness. 

Being generally master of my time, I spend a good deal of it in a 
library, which I think the most valuable part of my small estate; and 



JOHN DICKINSON 177 



being acquainted with two or three gentlemen of abilities and learning, 
who honor me with their friendship, I have acquired, I believe, a 
greater knowledge in history, and the laws and constitution of my 
country, than is generally attained by men of my class, many of them 
not being so fortunate as I have been in the opportunities of getting 
information. 

From my infancy I was taught to love humanity and liberty. 
Enquiry and experience have since confirmed my reverence for the 
lessons then given me, by convincing me more fully of their truth 
and excellence. Benevolence towards mankind, excites wishes for 
their welfare, and such wishes endear the means of fulfilling them. 
These can be found in liberty only, and therefore her sacred cause 
ought to be espoused by every man, on every occasion, to the utmost 
of his power. As a charitable, but poor person does not withhold 
his mite, because he cannot relieve all the distresses of the miserable, 
so should not any honest man suppress his sentiments concerning 
freedom, however small their influence is likely to be. Perhaps he 
"may touch some wheel," that will have an effect greater than he 
could reasonably expect. 

These being my sentiments, I am encouraged to offer to you, my 
countrymen, my thoughts on some late transactions, that appear to 
me to be of the utmost importance to you. Conscious of my own 
defects, I have waited some time, in expectation of seeing the subject 
treated by persons much better qualified for the task; but being 
therein disappointed, and apprehensive that longer delays will be 
injurious, I venture at length to request the attention of the public, 
praying, that these lines may be read with the same zeal for the 
happiness of British America, with which they were wrote. 

With a good deal of surprize I have observed, that little notice has 
been taken of an act of parliament, as injurious in its principle to the 
liberties of these colonies, as the Stamp- Act was: I mean the act for 
suspending the legislation of New-York. 

The assembly of that government complied with a former act 
of parliament, requiring certain provisions to be made for the troops 
in America, in every particular, I think, except the articles of salt, 
pepper and vinegar. In my opinion they acted imprudently, con- 
sidering all circumstances, in not complying so far as would have given 
satisfaction, as several colonies did: But my dislike of their conduct 



178 AMERICAN PROSE 



in that instance, has not blinded me so much, that I cannot plainly 
perceive, that they have been punished in a manner pernicious to 
American freedom, and justly alarming to all the colonies. 

If the British parliament has a legal authority to issue an order, 
that we shall furnish a single article for the troops here, and to compel 
obedience to that order, they have the same right to issue an order 
for us to supply those troops with arms, cloaths, and every necessary; 
and to compel obedience to that order also; in short, to lay any 
burthens they please upon us. What is this but taxing us at a 
certain sum, and leaving to us only the manner of raising it ? How 
is this mode more tolerable than the Stamp- Act? Would that 
act have appeared more pleasing to Americans, if being ordered 
thereby to raise the sum total of the taxes, the mighty privilege 
had been left to them, of saying how much should be paid for an 
instrument of writing on paper, and how much for another on 
parchment ? 

An act of parliament, commanding us to do a certain thing, if 
it has any validity, is a tax upon us for the expence that accrues in 
complying with it; and for this reason, I believe, every colony on the 
continent, that chose to give a mark of their respect for Great-Britain, 
in complying with the act relating to the troops, cautiously avoided 
the mention of that act, lest their conduct should be attributed to its 
supposed obligation. 

The matter being thus stated, the assembly of New-York either 
had, or had not, a right to refuse submission to that act. If they had, 
and I imagine no American will say they had not, then the parliament 
had no right to compel them to execute it. If they had not this right, 
they had no right to punish them for not executing it; and therefore 
no right to suspend their legislation, which is a punishment. In fact, 
if the people of New-York cannot be legally taxed but by their own 
representatives, they cannot be legally deprived of the privilege of 
legislation, only for insisting on that exclusive privilege of taxation. 
If they may be legally deprived in such a case, of the privilege of 
legislation, why may they not, with equal reason, be deprived of 
every other privilege ? Or why may not every colony be treated in 
the same manner, when any of them shall dare to deny their assent 
to any impositions, that shall be directed? Or what signifies the 
repeal of the Stamp- Act, if these colonies are to lose their other privi- 
leges, by not tamely surrendering that of taxation ? 



JOHN DICKINSON 1 79 



There is one consideration arising from this suspension, which is 
not generally attended to, but shews its importance very clearly. It 
was not necessary that this suspension should be caused by an act 
of parliament. The crown might have restrained the governor of 
New-York, even from calling the assembly together, by its prerogative 
in the royal governments. This step, I suppose, would have been 
taken, if the conduct of the assembly of New-York had been regarded 
as an act of disobedience to the crown alone; but it is regarded as an 
act of "disobedience to the authority of the British legislature." 
This gives the suspension a consequence vastly more affecting. It 
is a parliamentary assertion of the supreme authority of the British 
legislature over these colonies, in the point of taxation, and is intended 
to compel New-York into a submission to that authority. It seems 
therefore to me as much a violation of the liberties of the people of 
that province, and consequently of all these colonies, as if the parlia- 
ment had sent a number of regiments to be quartered upon them till 
they should comply. For it is evident, that the suspension is meant 
as a compulsion; and the method of compelling is totally indifferent. 
It is indeed probable, that the sight of red coats, and the hearing of 
drums, would have been most alarming; because people are generally 
more influenced by their eyes and ears, than by their reason. But 
whoever seriously considers the matter, must perceive that a dreadful 
stroke is aimed at the liberty of these colonies. I say, of these 
colonies; for the cause of one is the cause of all. If the parliament 
may lawfully deprive New-York of any of her rights, it may deprive 
any, or all the other colonies of their rights; and nothing can possibly 
so much encourage such attempts, as a mutual inattention to the 
interests of each other. To divide, and thus to destroy, is the first 
political maxim in attacking those, who are powerful by their union. 
He certainly is not a wise man, who folds his arms, and. reposes him- 
self at home, viewing, with unconcern, the flames that have invaded 
his neighbour's house, without using any endeavours to extinguish 
them. When Mr. Hampden's ship money cause, for Three Shillings 
and Four-pence, was tried, all the people of England, with anxious 
expectation, interested themselves in the important decision; and 
when the slightest point, touching the freedom of one colony, is 
agitated, I earnestly wish, that all the rest may, with equal ardor, 
support their sister. Very much may be said on this subject; but 
I hope, more at present is unnecessary. 



180 AMERICAN PROSE 



With concern I have observed, that two assemblies of this province 
have sat and adjourned, without taking any notice of this act. It 
may perhaps be asked, what would have been proper for them to do ? 
I am by no means fond of inflammatory measures; I detest them. I 
should be sorry that any thing should be done, which might justly 
displease our sovereign, or our mother country: But a firm, modest 
exertion of a free spirit, should never be wanting on public occasions. 
It appears to me, that it would have been sufficient for the assembly, 
to have ordered our agents to represent to the King's ministers, their 
sense of the suspending act, and to pray for its repeal. Thus we 
should have borne our testimony against it; and might therefore 
reasonably expect that, on a like occasion, we might receive the same 
assistance from the other colonies. 

Concordia res parvce crescunt. 

Small things grow great by concord. 
Nov. 5. A FARMER. 



SAMUEL SEABURY 

FROM 

FREE THOUGHTS ON THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE 
CONTINENTAL CONGRESS 

You know, my Friends, that the sale of your seed not only pays 
your taxes, but furnishes you with many of the little conveniencies, 
and comforts of life; the loss of it for one year would be of more 
damage to you, than paying the three-penny duty on tea for twenty. 
Let us compare matters a little. It was inconvenient for me this 
year to sow more than one bushel of seed. I have threshed and 
cleaned up eleven bushels. The common price now is at least ten 
shillings; my seed then will fetch me five pounds, ten shillings. But 
I will throw in the ten shillings for expences. There remain five 
pounds: in five pounds are four hundred three-pences; four hundred 
three-pences currency, will pay the duty upon two hundred pounds 
of tea, even reckoning the exchange with London at 200 per cent, 
that is, reckoning 100 1. sterling, to be equal to 200 1. currency; 
whereas in fact it is only equal to 175 or 180 1. at the most. I use 
in my family about six pounds of tea: few farmers in my neighbour- 



SAMUEL SEABURY 181 

hood use so much: but I hate to stint my wife and daughters, or my 
friendly neighbours when they come to see me. Besides, I like a 
dish of tea too, especially after a little more than ordinary fatigue in 
hot weather. Now 200 pounds of tea, at six pounds a year, will 
last just 2>3 years, and eight months. So that in order to pay this 
monstrous duty upon tea, which has raised all this confounded com- 
bustion in the country, I have only to sell the produce of a bushel 
of flax-seed once in thirty-three years. Ridiculous! 

But, to leave jesting. The loss of the sale of your seed only for 
one year, would be a considerable damage to you. And yet the Con- 
gress have been so inattentive to your interests, that they have laid 
you under, almost, an absolute necessity of losing it the next year. 
They have decreed, and proclaimed a non-exportation, to commence 
in September next. The Irish will be alarmed. They will look out 
somewhere else. Or should they determine to send their ships the 
earlier, we cannot, without the utmost inconvenience, get our seed 
to market by that time; especially, not from the remoter parts of 
the province. The consequence will be, that we must sell our seed 
at the oil-mills in New- York, just at the price the manufacturers 
shall please to give us 

Let us now attend a little to the Non-Consumption Agreement, 
which the Congress, in their Association, have imposed upon us. 
After the first of March we are not to purchase or use any East- 
India Tea whatsoever; nor any goods, wares, or merchandize from 
Great-Britain or Ireland, imported after the first day of December 
next: nor any molasses, syrups, &c. from the British plantations in 
the West-Indies, or from Dominica; nor wine from Madeira, or the 
Western Islands; nor foreign indigo. 

Will you submit to this slavish regulation? — You must. — Our 
sovereign- Lords and Masters, the High and Mighty Delegates, in 
Grand Continental Congress assembled, have ordered and directed 
it. They have directed the Committees in the respective colonies, 
to establish such further regulations as they may think proper, for 
carrying their association, of which this Non-consumption agreement 
is a part, into execution. Mr. ******** of New- York, under the 
authority of their High-Mightinesses, the Delegates, by, and with 
the advice of his Privy Council, the Committee of New-York, hath 
issued his mandate, bearing date Nov. 7, 1774, recommending it 



182 AMERICAN PROSE 



to the freeholders and freemen of New- York, to assemble on the 18th 
of November, to choose eight persons out of every ward, to be a 
Committee, to carry the Association of the Congress into execution. 

The business of the Committee so chosen is to be, to inspect 

the conduct of the inhabitants, and see whether they violate the Asso- 
ciation. Among other things, Whether they drink any Tea or 

wine in their families, after the first of March; or wear any British 
or Irish manufactures; or use any English molasses, &c, imported 
after the first day of December next. If they do, their names are to 
be published in the Gazette, that they may be publickly known, and 
universally contemned, as foes to the Rights of British America, and 
enemies of American Liberty. — And then the parties of the said Asso- 
ciation will respectively break of all dealings with him or her. — In plain 
English, — They shall be considered as Out-laws, unworthy of the 
protection of civil society, and delivered over to the vengeance of a 
lawless, outrageous mob, to be tarred, feathered, hanged, drawn, 
quartered, and burnt. — rare American Freedom! 

Probably, as soon as this point is settled in New- York, the said 
Mr. ******** i n the plentitude of his power, by, and with the advice 
of his Privy Council aforesaid, will issue his Mandate to the super- 
visors in the several counties, as he did about the choice of Delegates, 
and direct them to have Committees chosen in their respective 
districts, for the same laudable purpose. 

Will you be instrumental in bringing the most abject slavery on 
yourselves ? Will you choose such Committees ? Will you submit 
to them, should they be chosen by the weak, foolish, turbulent part 
of the country people? — Do as you please: but, by him that made 
me, I will not. — No, if I must be enslaved, let it be by a King at least, 
and not by a parcel of upstart lawless Committee-men. If I must 
be devoured, let me be devoured by the jaws of a lion, and not 
gnawed to death by rats and vermin. 

Did you choose your supervisors for the purpose of inslaving you ? 
What right have they to fix up advertisements to call you together, 
for a very different purpose from that for which they were elected ? 
Are our supervisors our masters ? — And should half a dozen foolish 
people meet together again, in consequence of their advertisements, 
and choose themselves to be a Committee, as they did in many 
districts, in the affair of choosing Delegates, are we obliged to submit 
to such a Committee ? — You ought, my friends, to assert your own 



FRANCIS HOPKINSON 183 

freedom. Should such another attempt be made upon you, assemble 
yourselves together: tell your supervisor, that he has exceeded his 
commission: — That you will have no such Committees: — That you 
are Englishmen, and will maintain your rights and privileges, and 
will eat, and drink, and wear, whatever the public laws of your coun- 
try permit, without asking leave of any illegal, tyrannical Congress 
or Committee on earth. 

But however, as I said before, do as you please: If you like it 
better, choose your Committee, or suffer it to be chosen by half a 
dozen Fools in your neighbourhood, — open your doors to them; — ■ 
let them examine your tea-cannisters, and molasses-jugs, and your 
wives and daughters petty-coats, — bow, and cringe, and tremble, and 
quake, — fall down and worship our sovereign Lord the Mob. — But 

I repeat it, By H n, I will not. — No, my house is my castle : as such 

I will consider it, as such I will defend it, while I have breath. No 
King's officer shall enter it without my permission, unless supported 
by a warrant from a magistrate. — And shall my house be entered, 
and my mode of living enquired into, by a domineering Committee- 
man? Before / submit, I will die: live you, and be slaves. 

Do, I say, as you please : but should any pragmatical Committee- 
gentleman come to my house, and give himself airs, I shall shew him 
the door, and if he does not soon take himself away, a good hiccory 
cudgel shall teach him better manners. 



FRANCIS HOPKINSON 

A PRETTY STORY 

CHAP. I. 

Once upon a Time, a great While ago, there lived a certain 
Nobleman, who had long possessed a very valuable Farm, and had a 
great Number of Children and Grandchildren. 

Besides the annual Profits of his Land, which were very consider- 
able, he kept a large Shop of Goods; and being very successful in 
Trade, he became, in Process of Time, exceedingly rich and powerful; 
insomuch that all his Neighbours feared and respected him. 

With Respect to the Management of his Family, it was thought 
he had adopted the most perfect Mode that could be devised, for he 
had been at the Pains to examine the (Economy of all his Neighbours, 



184 AMERICAN PROSE 



and had selected from their Plans all such Parts as appeared to be 
equitable and beneficial, and omitted those which from Experience 
were found to be inconvenient. Or rather, by blending their several 
Constitutions together he had so ingeniously counterbalanced the 
Evils of one Mode of Government with the Benefits of another, that 
the Advantages were richly enjoyed, and the Inconveniencies scarcely 
felt. In short, his Family was thought to be the best ordered of 
any in his Neighbourhood. 

He never exercised any undue Authority over his Children or 
Servants; neither indeed could he oppress them if he was so disposed; 
for it was particularly covenanted in his Marriage Articles that he 
should not at any Time impose any Tasks or Hardships whatever upon 
his Children without the free Consent of his Wife. 

Now the Custom in his Family was this, that at the End of every 
seven Years his Marriage became of Course null and void; at which 
Time his Children and Grandchildren met together and chose another 
Wife for him, whom the old Gentleman was obliged to marry under 
the same Articles and Restrictions as before. If his late Wife had 
conducted herself, during her seven Year's Marriage, with Mildness, 
Discretion and Integrity, she was re-elected; if otherwise, deposed: 
By which Means the Children had always a great Interest in their 
Mother in Law; and through her, a reasonable Check upon their 
Father's Temper. For besides that he could do nothing material 
respecting his Children without her Approbation, she was sole Mis- 
tress of the Purse Strings; and gave him out, from Time to Time, 
such Sums of Money as she thought necessary for the Expences of 
his Family. 

Being one Day in a very extraordinary good Humour, he gave his 
Children a Writing under his Hand and Seal, by which he released 
them from many Badges of Dependance, and confirmed to them 
several very important Privileges. The chief were the two following, 
viz. that none of his Children should be punished for any Offence, or 
supposed Offence, until his brethren had first declared him worthy of 
such Punishment; and secondly, he gave fresh Assurances that he 
would impose no Hardships upon them without the Consent of their 
Mother in Law. 

This Writing, on account of its singular Importance, was called 
The Great Paper. After it was executed with the utmost solem- 



FRANCIS HOPKINSON 185 

nity, he caused his Chaplain to publish a dire Anathema against all 
who should attempt to violate the Articles of the Great Paper, in the 
Words following. 

"In the Name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Amen! Whereas 
our Lord and Master, to the Honour of God and for the common 
Profit of this Farm hath granted, for him and his Heirs forever, these 
Articles above written: I, his Chaplain and spiritual Pastor of all 
this Farm, do admonish the People of the Farm Once, Twice, and 
Thrice: Because that Shortness will not suffer so much Delay as to 
give Knowledge to the People of these Presents in Writing; I there- 
fore enjoyn all Persons, of what Estate soever they be, that they and 
every of them, as much as in them is, shall uphold and maintain these 
Articles granted by our Lord and Master in all Points. And all those 
that in any Point do resist, or break, or in any Manner hereafter 
procure, counsel or any Ways assent to resist or break these Ordi- 
nances, or go about it by Word or Deed, openly or privately, by any 
Manner of Pretence or Colour: I the aforesaid Chaplain, by my 
Authority, do excommunicate and accurse, and from the Body of our 
Lord Jesus Christ, and from all the Company of Heaven, and from all 
the Sacraments of holy Church do sequester and exclude." 

chap. n. 

' Now it came to pass that this Nobleman had, by some Means or 
other, obtained a Right to an immense Tract of wild uncultivated 
Country at a vast Distance from his Mansion House. But he set 
little Store by this Acquisition, as it yielded him no Profit ; nor was 
it likely to do so, being not only difficult of Access on Account of the 
Distance, but was also overrun with innumerable wild Beasts very 
fierce and savage; so that it would be extremely dangerous to attempt 
taking Possession of it. 

In Process of Time, however, some of his Children, more stout and 
enterprising than the rest, requested Leave of their Father to go and 
settle on this distant Tract of Land. Leave was readily obtained; 
but before they set out certain Agreements were stipulated between 
them — the principal were — The old Gentleman, on his Part, engaged 
to protect and defend the Adventurers in their new Settlements; 
to assist them in chacing away the wild Beasts, and to extend to them 
all the Benefits of the Government under which they were born: 



186 AMERICAN PROSE 



Assuring them that although they should be removed so far from his 
Presence they should nevertheless be considered as the Children of his 
Family, and treated accordingly. At the same Time he gave each 
of them a Bond for the faithful performance of these Promises; in 
which, among other Things, it was covenanted that they should, 
each of them in their several Families, have a Liberty of making such 
Rules and Regulations for their own good Government as they should 
find convenient; provided these Rules and Regulations should not 
contradict or be inconsistent with the general standing Orders estab- 
lished in his Farm. 

In Return for these Favours he insisted that they, on their Parts, 
should at all Times acknowledge him to be their Father; that they 
should not deal with their Neighbours without his Leave, but send 
to his Shop only for such Merchandize as they should want. But in 
Order to enable them to pay for such Goods as they should purchase, 
they were permitted to sell the Produce of their Lands to certain 
of his Neighbours. 

These Preliminaries being duly adjusted, our Adventurers bid 
Adieu to the Comforts and Conveniencies of their Father's House, 
and set off on their Journey — Many and great were the Difficulties 
they encountered on their Way: but many more and much greater 
had they to combat on their Arrival in the new Country. Here they 
found Nothing but wild Nature. Mountains over-grown with inac- 
cessible Foliage, and Plains steeped in stagnated Waters. Their Ears 
are no longer attentive to the repeated Strokes of industrious Labour 
and the busy Hum of Men; instead of these, the roaring Tempest 
and incessant Howlings of Beasts of Prey fill their minds with Horror 
and Dismay. The needful Comforts of Life are no longer in their 
Power — no friendly Roof to shelter them from inclement Skies; no 
Fortress to protect them from surrounding Dangers. Unaccustomed 
as they were to Hardships like these, some were cut off by Sickness and 
Disease, and others snatched away by the Hands of Barbarity. They 
began however, with great Perseverance, to clear the Land of encum- 
bering Rubbish, and the Woods resound with the Strokes of Labour; 
they drain the Waters from the sedged Morass, and pour the Sun 
Beams on the reeking Soil; they are forced to exercise all the powers 
of Industry and (Economy for bare Subsistence, and like their first 
Parent, when driven from Paradise, to earn their Bread with the Sweat 



FRANCIS HOPKINSON 187 

of their Brows. In this Work they were frequently interrupted by 
the Incursions of the wild Beasts, against whom they defended 
themselves with heroic Prowess and Magnanimity. 

After some Time, however, by Dint of indefatigable Persever- 
ance, they found themselves comfortably settled in this new Farm; 
and had the delightful Prospect of vast Tracts of Land waving with 
luxuriant Harvests, and perfuming the Air with delicious Fruits, 
which before had been a dreary Wilderness, unfit for the Habitation 
of Men. 

In the mean Time they kept up a constant Correspondence with 
their Father's Family, and at a great Expence provided Waggons, 
Horses and Drivers to bring from his Shop such Goods and Mer- 
chandize as they wanted, for which -they paid out of the Produce 
of their Lands. 

chap. m. 

Now the new Settlers had adopted a Mode of Government in 
their several Families similar to that their Father had established in 
the old Farm; in taking a new Wife at the End of certain Periods of 
Time; which Wife was chosen for them by their Children, and with- 
out whose Consent they could do nothing material in the Conduct 
of their Affairs. Under these Circumstances they thrived exceed- 
ingly, and became very numerous; living in great Harmony amongst 
themselves, and in constitutional Obedience to their Father and his 
Wife. 

Notwithstanding their successful Progress, however, they were 
frequently annoyed by the wild Beasts, which were not yet expelled 
the Country; and were moreover troubled by some of their Neigh- 
bours, who wanted to drive them off the Land, and take Possession of 
it themselves. 

To assist them in these Difficulties, and protect them from 
Danger, the old Nobleman sent over several of his Servants, who with 
the Help of the new Settlers drove away their Enemies. But then 
he required that they should reimburse him for the Expence and 
Trouble he was at in their Behalf; this they did with great Cheerful- 
ness, by applying from Time to Time to their respective Wives, who 
always commanded their Cash. 

Thus did Matters go on for a considerable Time, to their mutual 
Happiness and Benefit, But now the Nobleman's Wife began to 



l88 AMERICAN PROSE 



cast an avaricious Eye upon the new Settlers; saying to herself, if 
by the natural Consequence of their Intercourse with us my Wealth 
and Power are so much increased, how much more would they accumu- 
late if I can persuade them that all they have belonged to us, and 
therefore I may at any Time demand from them such Part of their 
Earnings as I please. At the same Time she was fully sensible of 
the Promises and agreements her Husband had made when they 
left the old Farm, and of the Tenor and Purport of the Great Paper. 
She therefore thought it necessary to proceed with great Caution 
and Art, and endeavoured to gain her Point by imperceptible 
Steps. 

In Order to this, she first issued an Edict setting forth, That 
whereas the Tailors of her Family were greatly injured by the People 
of the new Farm, inasmuch as they presumed to make their own 
Clothes whereby the said Tailors were deprived of the Benefit of their 
Custom; it was therefore ordained that for the future the new Settlers 
should not be permitted to have amongst them any Shears or Scissars 
larger than a certain fixed size. In Consequence of this, our Adven- 
turers were compelled to have their Clothes made by their Father's 
Tailors: But out of Regard to the old Gentleman, they patiently 
submitted to this Grievance. 

Encouraged by this Success, she proceeded in her Plan. Observ- 
ing that the new Settlers were very fond of a particular Kind of Cyder 
which they purchased of a Neighbour, who was in Friendship with 
their Father (the Apples proper for making this Cyder not growing on 
their own Farm) she published another Edict, obliging them to pay 
her a certain Stipend for every Barrel of Cyder used in their Families! 
To this likewise they submitted: Not yet seeing the Scope of her 
Designs against them. 

After this Manner she proceeded, imposing Taxes upon them on 
various Pretences, and receiving the Fruits of their Industry with both 
Hands. Moreover she persuaded her Husband to send amongst 
them from Time to Time a Number of the most lazy and useless of 
his Servants, under the specious Pretext of defending them in their 
Settlements, and of assisting to destroy the wild Beasts; but in Fact 
to rid his own House of their Company, not having Employment for 
them; and at the same Time to be a Watch and a Check upon the 
People of the new Farm. 



FRANCIS HOP KIN SON 189 

It was likewise ordered that these Protectors, as they were called, 
should be supplied with Bread and Butter cut in a particular Form: 
But the Head of one of the Families refused to comply with this 
Order. He engaged to give the Guests thus forced upon him, Bread 
and Butter sufficient; but insisted that his Wife should have the 
liberty of cutting it in what shape she pleased. 

This put the old Nobleman into a violent Passion, inscmuch that 
he had his Son's Wife put into Gaol for presuming to cut her Loaf 
otherwise than as had been directed. 

CHAP. IV. 

As the old Gentleman advanced in Years he began to neglect 
the Affairs of his Family, leaving them chiefly to the Management 
of his Steward. Now the Steward had debauched his Wife, and by 
that Means gained an entire Ascendency over her. She no longer 
deliberated what would most benefit either the old Farm or the new; 
but said and did whatever the Steward pleased. Nay so much was 
she influenced by him that she could neither utter Ay or No but as 
he directed. For he had cunningly persuaded her that it was very 
fashionable for Women to wear Padlocks on their Lips, and that he 
was sure they would become her exceedingly. He therefore fastened 
a Padlock to each Corner of her Mouth; when the one was open, 
she could only say Ay; and when the other was loosed, could only 
cry No. He took Care to keep the Keys of these Locks himself; so 
that her Will became entirely subject to his Power. 

Now the old Lady and the Steward had set themselves against the 
People of the new Farm; and began to devise Ways and Means to 
impoverish and distress them. 

They prevailed on the Nobleman to sign an Edict against the new 
Settlers, in which it was declared that it was their Duty as Children 
to pay something towards the supplying their Father's Table with 
Provisions, and to the supporting the Dignity of his Family; for 
that Purpose it was. ordained that all their Spoons, Knives and Forks, 
Plates and Porringers, should be marked with a certain Mark, by 
Officers appointed for that End; for which marking they were to pay 
a certain Stipend: And that they should not, under severe Penalties, 
presume to make use of any Spoon, Knife or Fork, Plate or Porringer, 
before it had been so marked, and the said Stipend paid to the Officer. 



190 AMERICAN PROSE 



The Inhabitants of the new Farm began to see that their Father's 
Affections were alienated from them; and that their Mother was but 
a base Mother in Law debauched by their Enemy the Steward. They 
were thrown into great Confusion and Distress. They wrote the 
most supplicating Letters to the old Gentleman, in which they 
acknowledged him to be their Father in Terms of the greatest Respect 
and Affection — they recounted to him the Hardships and Difficulties 
they had suffered in settling his new Farm; and pointed out the 
great Addition of Wealth and Power his Family had acquired by the 
Improvement of that Wilderness; and showed him that all the Fruits 
of their Labours must in the natural Course of Things unite, in the 
long Run, in his Money Box. They also, in humble Terms, reminded 
him of his Promises and Engagements on their leaving Home, and 
of the Bonds he had given them; of the Solemnity and Importance 
of the Great Paper with the Curse annexed. They acknowledged 
that he ought to be reimbursed the Expences he was at on their 
Account, and that it was their Duty to assist in supporting the Dig- 
nity of his Family. All this they declared they were ready and willing 
to do; but requested that they might do it agreeable to the Purport 
of the Great Paper, by applying to their several Wives for the Keys 
of their Money Boxes and furnishing him from thence; and not be 
subject to the Tyranny and Caprice of an avaricious Mother in Law, 
whom they had never chosen, and of a Steward who was their 
declared Enemy. 

Some of these Letters were intercepted by the Steward; others 
were delivered to the old Gentleman, who was at the same Time per- 
suaded to take no Notice of them; but, on the Contrary, to insist 
the more strenuously upon the Right his Wife claimed of marking 
their Spoons, Knives and Forks, Plates and Porringers. 

The new Settlers, observing how Matters were conducted in their 
Father's Family became exceedingly distressed and mortified. They 
met together and agreed one and all that they would no longer submit 
to the arbitrary Impositions of their Mother in Law, and their Enemy 
the Steward. They determined to pay no Manner of Regard to the 
new Decree, considering it as a Violation of the Great Paper. But 
to go on and eat their Broth and Pudding as usual. The Cooks 
also and Butlers served up their Spoons, Knives and Forks, Plates 
and Porringers, without having them marked by the new Officers. 



FRANCIS HOP KIN SON 191 

The Nobleman at length thought fit to reverse the Order which 
had been made respecting the Spoons, Knives and Forks, Plates and 
Porringers of the new Settlers. But he did this with a very ill Grace: 
For he, at the same Time avowed and declared that he and his Wife 
had a Right to mark all their Furniture, if they pleased, from the 
Silver Tankard down to the very Chamber Pots: That as he was 
their Father he had an absolute Controul over them, and that their 
Liberties, Lives and Properties were at the entire Disposal of him and 
his Wife: That it was not fit that he who was allowed to be Omni- 
present, Immortal, and incapable of Error, should be confined by the 
Shackles of the Great Paper; or obliged to fulfil the Bonds he had 
given them, which he averred he had a Right to cancel whenever he 
pleased. 

His Wife also became intoxicated with Vanity. The Steward 
had told her that she was an omnipotent Goddess, and ought to be 
worshipped as such: That it was the Height of Impudence and Dis- 
obedience in the new Settlers to dispute her Authority, which, with 
Respect to them, was unlimited: That as they had removed from 
their Father's Family, they had forfeited all Pretensions to be con- 
sidered as his Children, and lost the Privileges of the Great Paper: 
That, therefore, she might look on them only as Tenants at Will 
upon her Husband's Farm, and exact from them what Rent she 
pleased. 

All this was perfectly agreeable to Madam, who admitted this 
new Doctrine in its full Sense. 

The People of the new Farm however took little Notice of these 
pompous Declarations. They were glad the marking Decree was 
reversed, and were in Hopes that Things would gradually settle into 
their former Channel. 

chap. v. 

In the mean Time the new Settlers increased exceedingly, and 
as they increased, their Dealings at their Father's Shop were propor- 
tionably enlarged. 

It is true they suffered some Inconveniencies from the Protectors 
that had been sent amongst them, who became very troublesome in 
their Houses: They seduced their Daughters; introduced Riot and 
Intemperance into their Families, and derided and insulted the Orders 
and Regulations they had made for their own good Government. 



102 AMERICAN PROSE 



Moreover the old Nobleman had sent amongst them a great Number 
of Thieves, Ravishers and Murderers, who did a great deal of Mischief 
by practising those Crimes for which they had been banished the old 
Farm. But they bore these Grievances with as much Patience as 
could be expected; not choosing to trouble their aged Father with 
Complaints, unless in Cases of important Necessity. 

Now the Steward continued to hate the new Settlers with exceed- 
ing great Hatred, and determined to renew his Attack upon their 
Peace and Happiness. He artfully insinuated to the old Gentleman 
and his foolish Wife, that it was very mean and unbecoming in them 
to receive the Contributions of the People of the new Farm, towards 
supporting the Dignity of his Family, through the Hands of their 
respective Wives: That upon this Footing it would be in their Power 
to refuse his Requisitions whenever they should be thought to be 
unreasonable, of which they would pretend to be Judges themselves; 
and that it was high Time they should be compelled to acknowledge 
his arbitrary Power, and his Wife's Omnipotence. 

For this Purpose, another Decree was prepared and published, 
ordering that the new Settlers should pay a certain Stipend upon 
particular Goods, which they were not allowed to purchase any where 
but at their Father's Shop; and that this Stipend should not be deemed 
an Advance upon the original Price of the Goods, but be paid on their 
arrival at the new Farm, for the express Purpose of supporting the 
Dignity of the old Gentleman's Family, and of defraying the Expences 
he affected to afford them. 

This new Decree gave our Adventurers the utmost Uneasiness. 
They saw that the Steward and their Mother in Law were determined 
to oppress and enslave them. They again met together and wrote 
to their Father, as before, the most humble and persuasive Letters; 
but to little Purpose: A deaf Ear was turned to all their Remon- 
strances; and their dutiful Requests treated with Contempt. 

Finding this moderate and decent Conduct brought them no 
Relief, they had Recourse to another Expedient. They bound them- 
selves in a solemn Engagement not to deal any more at their Father's 
Shop until this unconstitutional Decree should be reversed; which 
they declared to be a Violation of the Great Paper. 

This Agreement was so strictly adhered to, that in a few Months 
the Clerks and Apprentices in the old Gentleman's Shop began to 



FRANCIS HOP KIN SON 193 

make a sad Outcry. They declared that their Master's Trade was 
declining exceedingly, and that his Wife and Steward would, by their 
mischievious Machinations, ruin the whole Farm: They forthwith 
sharpened their Pens and attacked the Steward, and even the old Lady 
herself with great Severity. Insomuch that it was thought proper 
to withdraw this Attempt likewise upon the Rights and Liberties of 
the new Settlers. One Part only of the new Decree remained unre- 
versed — viz. the Tax upon Water Gruel. 

Now there were certain Men on the old Farm, who had obtained 
from the Nobleman an exclusive Right of selling Water Gruel. Vast 
Quantities of this Gruel were vended amongst the new Settlers; for 
it became very fashionable for them to use it in their Families in great 
Abundance. They did not however trouble themselves much about 
the Tax on Water Gruel: They were well pleased with the Reversal of 
the other Parts of the Decree, and considering Gruel as not absolutely 
necessary to the Comfort of Life, they were determined to endeavour 
to do without it, and by that Means avoid the remaining effects of 
the new Decree. 

The Steward found his Designs once more frustrated; but was 
not discouraged by this Disappointment. He formed another Scheme 
so artfully contrived that he thought himself sure of Success. He 
sent for the Persons who had the sole Right of vending Water Gruel, 
and after reminding them of the Obligations they were under to the 
Nobleman and his Wife for their exclusive Privilege, he desired that 
they would send sundry Waggon Loads of Gruel to the new Farm, 
promising that the accustomed Duty which they paid for their exclu- 
sive Right should be taken off from all the Gruel they should send 
amongst the new Settlers: And that in Case their Cargoes should 
come to any Damage, he would take Care that the Loss should be 
repaired out of the old Gentleman's Coffers. 

The Gruel Merchants readily consented to this Proposal, knowing 
that if their Cargoes were sold, they would reap considerable Profits; 
and if they failed, the Steward was to make good the Damage. On 
the other hand the Steward concluded that the new Settlers could not 
resist purchasing the Gruel to which they had been so long accustomed; 
and if they did purchase it when subject to the Tax aforesaid, this 
would be an avowed Acknowledgment on their Parts that their 
Father and his Wife had a Right to break through the Tenor of the 



194 AMERICAN PROSE 



Great Paper, and to lay on them what Impositions they pleased, with- 
out the Consent of their respective Wives. 

But the new Settlers were well aware of this Decoy. They saw 
clearly that the Gruel was not sent to accommodate, but to enslave 
them; and that if they suffered any Part of it to be sold amongst 
them, it would be deemed a Submission to the assumed Omnipotence 
of the Great Madam. 

CHAP. VI. 

On the Arrival of the Water Gruel, the People of the new Farm 
were again thrown into great Alarms and Confusions. Some of them 
would not suffer the Waggons to be unloaded at all, but sent them 
immediately back to the Gruel Merchants: Others permitted the 
Waggons to unload, but would not touch the hateful Commodity; so 
that it lay neglected about their Roads and Highways until it grew 
sour and spoiled. But one of the new Settlers, whose Name was 
Jack, either from a keener Sense of the Injuries attempted against 
him, or from the Necessity of his Situation, which was such that he 
could not send back the Gruel because of a Number of Mercenaries 
whom his Father had stationed before his House to watch and be a 
Check upon his Conduct: He, I say, being almost driven to Despair, 
fell to Work, and with great Zeal stove to Pieces the Casks of Gruel, 
which had been sent him, and utterly demolished the whole Cargoe. 

These Proceedings were soon known at the old Farm. Great 
and terrible was the Uproar there. The old Gentleman fell into great 
Wrath, declaring that his absent Children meant to throw off all 
Dependence upon him, and to become altogether disobedient. His 
Wife also tore the Padlocks from her Lips, and raved and stormed 
like a Billingsgate. The Steward lost all Patience and Moderation, 
swearing most prophanely that he would leave no Stone unturned 
'till he had humbled the Settlers of the new Farm at his Feet, and caused 
their Father to trample on their necks. Moreover the Gruel Mer- 
chants roared and bellowed for the Loss of their Gruel; and the Clerks 
and Apprentices were in the utmost Consternation lest the People 
of the new Farm should again agree to have no Dealings with their 
Father's Shop — Vengeance was immediately set on Foot, particu- 
larly against Jack. With him they determined to begin; hoping 
that by making an Example of him they should so terrify the other 



FRANCIS HOPKINSON 195 

Families of the new Settlers, that they would all submit to the Designs 
of the Steward, and the Omnipotence of the old Lady. 

A very large Padlock was, accordingly, prepared to be fastened 
upon Jack's great gate; the Key of which was to be given to the old 
Gentleman; who was not to open it again until he had paid for the 
Gruel he had spilt, and resigned all Claim to the Privileges of the Great 
Paper: Nor then neither unless he thought fit. Secondly, a Decree 
was made to new model the Regulations and (Economy of Jack's 
Family in such Manner that they might for the Future be more sub- 
ject to the Will of the Steward. And, thirdly, a large Gallows was 
erected before the Mansion House in the old Farm, and an Order 
made that if any of Jack's Children or Servants should be suspected 
of Misbehaviour, they should not be convicted or acquitted by the 
Consent of their Brethren, agreeable to the Purport of the Great 
Paper, but be tied Neck and Heels and dragged to the Gallows at 
the Mansion House and there be hanged without Mercy. 

No sooner did tidings of this undue Severity reach the new Farm, 
but the People were almost ready to despair. They were altogether 
at a Loss how to act, or by what Means they should avert the Ven- 
geance to which they were doomed: But the old Lady and Steward 
soon determined the Matter; for the Padlock was sent over, and with- 
out Ceremony fastened upon Jack's great Gate. They did not wait 
to know whether he would pay for the Gruel or not, or make the 
required Acknowledgments; nor give him the least Opportunity 
to make his Defence — The great Gate was locked, and the Key given 
to the old Nobleman, as had been determined. 

Poor Jack found himself in a most deplorable Condition. The 
great Inlet to his Farm was entirely blocked up, so that he could 
neither carry out the Produce of his Land for Sale, nor receive from 
abroad the Necessaries for his Family. 

But this was not all — His Father, along with the Padlock afore- 
said, had sent an Overseer to hector and domineer over him and his 
Family; and to endeavour to break his Spirit by exercising every 
possible Severity: For which Purpose he was attended by a great 
number of Mercenaries, and armed with more than common 
Authorities. 

On his first arrival in Jack's Family he was received with con- 
siderable Respect, because he was the Delegate of their aged Father: 



i 9 6 AMERICAN PROSE 



For, notwithstanding all that had past, the People of the new Settle- 
ments loved and revered the old Gentleman with a truly filial Attach- 
ment; attributing his unkindness entirely to the Intrigues of their 
Enemy the Steward. But this fair Weather did not last long. The 
new Overseer took the first Opportunity of showing that he had no 
Intentions of living in Harmony and Friendship with the Family. 
Some of Jack's Domesticks had put on their Sunday Clothes, and 
attended the Overseer in the great Parlour, in Order to pay him their 
Compliments on his Arrival, and to request his Assistance in recon- 
ciling them to their Father: But he rudely stopped them short, 
in the Midst of their Speech; called them a Parcel of disobedient 
Scoundrels, and bid them go about their Business. So saying, he 
turned upon his Heel, and with great Contempt left the Room. 

CHAP. VII. 

Now Jack and his Family finding themselves oppressed, insulted 
and tyrannised over in the most cruel and arbitrary Manner, advised 
with their Brethren what Measures should be adopted to relieve 
them from their intolerable Grievances. Their Brethren, one and all, 
united in sympathising with their Afflictions; they advised them to 
bear their Sufferings with Fortitude for a Time, assuring them that 
they looked on the Punishments and Insults laid upon them with 
the same Indignation as if they had been inflicted on themselves, and 
that they would stand by and support them to the last. But, above 
all, earnestly recommended it to them to be firm and steady in the 
Cause of Liberty and Justice, and never acknowledge the Omnipotence 
of their Mother in Law ; nor yield to the Machinations of their Enemy 
the Steward. 

In the mean Time, lest Jack's Family should suffer for Want 
of Necessaries, their great Gate being fast locked, liberal and very 
generous Contributions were raised among the several Families of the 
new Settlements, for their present Relief. This seasonable Bounty 
was handed to Jack over the Garden Wall — All Access to the Front 
of his House being shut up. 

Now the Overseer observed that the Children and Domesticks 
of Jack's Family had frequent Meetings and Consultations together: 
Sometimes in the Garret, and sometimes in the Stable: Understand- 
ing, likewise, that an Agreement not to deal in their Father's Shop, 



PATRICK HENRY 197 



until their Grievances should be redressed, was much talked of 
amongst them, he wrote a thundering Prohibition, much like a Pope's 
Bull, which he caused to be pasted up in every Room in the House : In 
which he declared and protested that these Meetings were treasonable, 
traiterous and rebellious; contrary to the Dignity of their Father, and 
inconsistent with the Omnipotence of their Mother in Law: Denoun- 
cing also terrible Punishments against any two of the Family who 
should from thenceforth be seen whispering together, and strictly 
forbidding the Domesticks to hold any more Meetings in the Garret 
or Stable. 

These harsh and unconstitutional Proceedings irritated Jack and 
the other inhabitants of the new Farm to such a Degree that 

CcBtera desunt. 



PATRICK HENRY 

SPEECH IN THE VIRGINIA CONVENTION OF DELEGATES 

No man thinks more highly than I do of the patriotism, as well 
as abilities, of the very worthy gentlemen who have just addressed 
the house. But different men often see the same subjects in different 
lights; and, therefore, I hope it will not be thought disrespectful 
to those gentlemen, if, entertaining as I do, opinions of a character 
very opposite to theirs, I shall speak forth my sentiments freely, and 
without reserve. This is no time for ceremony. The question be- 
fore the house is one of awful moment to this country. For my own 
part, I consider it as nothing less than a question of freedom or slavery. 
And in proportion to the magnitude of the subject, ought to be the 
freedom of the debate. It is only in this way that we can hope to 
arrive at truth, and fulfil the great responsibility which we hold to 
God and our country. Should I keep back my opinions at such a 
time, through fear of giving offence, I should consider myself as guilty 
of treason towards my country, and of an act of disloyalty toward 
the majesty of Heaven, which I revere above all earthly kings. 

Mr. President, it is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of 
hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth — and 
listen to the song of that syren, till she transforms us into beasts. Is 



198 AMERICAN PROSE 



this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for 
liberty ? Are we disposed to be of the number of those, who having 
eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly 
concern their temporal salvation ? For my part, whatever anguish 
of spirit it may cost, / am willing to know the whole truth; to know 
the worst, and to provide for it. 

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided; and that is 
the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future 
but by the past. And judging by the past, I wish to know what 
there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last 
ten years, to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been 
pleased to solace themselves and the house ? Is it that insidious smile 
with which our petition has been lately received ? Trust it not, sir ; it 
will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed 
with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our peti- 
tion comports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters 
and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of 
love and reconciliation ? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to 
be reconciled, that force must be called in to win back our love ? Let 
us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and 
subjugation — the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentle- 
men, sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force 
us to submission ? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive 
for it ? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, 
to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies ? No, sir, she 
has none. They are meant for us: they can be meant for no other. 
They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains, which the 
British ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to 
oppose to them ? Shall we try argument ? Sir, we have been trying 
that for the last ten years. Have we any thing new to offer upon the 
subject ? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every light of 
which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to 
entreaty and humble supplication ? What terms shall we find, which 
have not been already exhausted ? Let us not, I beseech you, sir, 
deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done every thing that could 
be done, to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have peti- 
tioned — we have remonstrated — we have supplicated — we have 
prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its inter- 



PATRICK HENRY 199 



position to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parlia- 
ment. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have 
produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been 
disregarded; and we have been spurned, with contempt, from the 
foot of the throne. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the 
fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room 
for hope. If we wish to be free — if we mean to preserve inviolate 
those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long con- 
tending — if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which 
we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves 
never to abandon, until the glorious object of our contest shall be 
obtained — we must fight ! — I repeat it, sir, we must fight ! ! An appeal 
to arms and to the God of Hosts, is all that is left us! 

They tell us, sir, that we are weak — unable to cope with so formid- 
able an adversary. But when shall we be stronger ? Will it be the 
next week or the next year ? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, 
and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house ? Shall 
we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire 
the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and 
hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have 
bound us hand and foot ? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper 
use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. 
Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in 
such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force 
which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight 
our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies 
of nations; and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. 
The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the 
active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were 
base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. 
There is no retreat, but in submission and slavery! Our chains are 
forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The 
war is inevitable — and let it come!! I repeat it, sir, let it come!!! 

It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, 
peace, peace — but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! 
The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the 
clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! 
Why stand we here idle ? What is it that gentlemen wish ? What 



2oo AMERICAN PROSE 



would they have ? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be pur- 
chased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty 
God! — I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give 
me liberty, or give me death! 



ETHAN ALLEN 

PROM 

A NARRATIVE OF COL. ETHAN ALLEN'S CAPTIVITY 

Ever since I arrived to a state of manhood, and acquainted myself 
with the general history of mankind, I have felt a sincere passion for 
liberty. The history of nations doomed to perpetual slavery, in 
consequence of yielding up to tyrants their natural-born liberties, I 
read with a sort of philosophical horror; so that the first systematical 
and bloody attempt at Lexington, to enslave America, thoroughly 
electrified my mind, and fully determined me to take part with my 
country: And while I was wishing for an opportunity to signalize 
myself in its behalf, directions were privately sent to me from the 
then colony (now State) of Connecticut, to raise the Green Moun- 
tain boys; (and if possible) with them to surprise and take the fortress 
Ticonderoga. This enterprize I cheerfully undertook; and, after 
first guarding all the passes that led thither, to cut off all intelligence 
between the garrison and the country, made a forced march from 
Bennington, and arrived at the lake opposite to Ticonderoga, on the 
evening of the ninth day of May, 1775, with two hundred and thirty 
valiant Green Mountain Boys; and it was with the utmost difficulty 
that I procured boats to. cross the lake: However, I landed eighty 
three men near the garrison, and sent the boats back for the rear 
guard commanded by Col. Seth Warner; but the day began to dawn, 
and I found myself under a necessity to attack the fort, before the 
rear could cross the lake; and, as it was viewed hazardous, I harangued 
the officers and soldiers, in the manner following; "Friends and fellow 
soldiers, you have, for a number of years past, been a scourge and 
terror to arbitrary power. Your valour has been famed abroad, and 
acknowledged, as appears by the advice and orders to me (from the 
General Assembly of Connecticut) to surprize and take the garrison 
now before us. I now propose to advance before you, and in person 



ETHAN ALLEN 201 



conduct you through the wicket-gate; for we must this morning either 
quit our pretensions to valour or possess ourselves of this fortress in a 
few minutes; and, in as much as it is a desperate attempt, (which 
none but the bravest of men dare undertake) I do not urge it on any- 
contrary to his will. You that will undertake voluntarily, poise your 
firelocks." 

The men being (at this time) drawn up in three ranks, each poised 
his firelock. I ordered them to face to the right; and, at the head of 
the center-file, marched them immediately to the wicket-gate afore- 
said, where I found a centry posted, who instantly snapped his fusee 
at me : I run immediately toward him, and he retreated through the 
covered way into the parade within the garrison, gave a halloo, and 
ran under a bomb-proof. My party who followed me into the fort, 
I formed on the parade in such a manner as to face the two barracks 
which faced each other. The garrison being asleep, (except the 
centries) we gave three huzzas which greatly surprized them. One 
of the centries made a pass at one of my officers with a charged 
bayonet, and slightly wounded him: My first thought was to kill 
him with my sword; but in an instant, altered the design and fury 
of the blow, to a slight cut on the side of the head; upon which he 
dropped his gun, and asked quarter, which I readily granted him; 
and demanded of him the place where the commanding officer kept; 
he shewed me a pair of stairs in the front of a barrack, on the west 
part of the garrison, which led up to a second story in said barrack, 
to which I immediately repaired, and ordered the commander (Capt 
Delaplace) to come forth instantly, or I would sacrifice the whole 
garrison; at which the Capt came immediately to the door with his 
breeches in his hand, when I ordered him to deliver to me the fort 
instantly, who asked me by what authority I demanded it: I 
answered him, "In the name of the great Jehovah, and the Conti- 
nental Congress." (The authority of the Congress being very little 
known at that time) he began to speak again; but I interrupted him, 
and with my drawn sword over his head, again demanded an imme- 
diate surrender of the garrison; to which he then complied, and 
ordered his men to be forthwith paraded without arms, as he had given 
up the garrison: In the mean time some of my officers had given 
orders, and in consequence thereof, sundry of the barrack doors were 
beat down, and about one third of the garrison imprisoned, which 



202 AMERICAN PROSE 



consisted of the said commander, a Lieut. Feltham, a conducter of 
artillery, a gunner, two Serjeants, and forty four rank and file; about 
one hundred pieces of cannon, one 13 inch mortar, and a number 
of swivels. This surprize was carried into execution in the gray 
of the morning of the 10th day of May, 1775. The sun seemed 
to rise that morning with a superior lustre; and Ticonderoga 
and its dependencies smiled on its conquerors, who tossed about 
the flowing bowl, and wished success to Congress, and the liberty 
and freedom of America. 



THOMAS PAINE 

FROM 

COMMON SENSE 

I challenge the warmest advocate for reconciliation, to shew a 
single advantage that this Continent can reap, by being connected 
with Great Britain. I repeat the challenge, not a single advantage 
is derived. Our corn will fetch its price in any market in Europe 
and our imported goods must be paid for buy them where we 
will. 

But the injuries and disadvantages which we sustain by that 
connection, are without number, and our duty to mankind at large, 
as well as to ourselves, instruct us to renounce the alliance: because 
any submission to, or dependance on Great Britain, tends directly 
to involve this Continent in European wars and quarrels. As Europe 
is our market for trade, we ought to form no political connection with 
any part of it. 'Tis the true interest of America, to steer clear of 
European contentions, which she never can do, while by her de- 
pendance on Britain, she is made the make-weight in the scale of 
British politics. 

Europe is too thickly planted with Kingdoms, to be long at peace, 
and whenever a war breaks out between England and any foreign 
power, the trade of America goes to ruin, because of her connection 
with Britain. The next war may not turn out like the last, and 
should it not, the advocates for reconciliation now, will be wishing 
for separation then, because neutrality in that case, would be a safer 
convoy than a man of war. Every thing that is right or reasonable 



THOMAS PAINE 203 



pleads for separation. The blood of the slain, the weeping voice of 
nature cries, Tis time to part. Even the distance at which the 
Almighty hath placed England and America, is a strong and natural 
proof, that the authority of the one over the other, was never the 
design of Heaven. The time likewise at which the Continent was dis- 
covered, adds weight to the argument, and the manner in which it was 

peopled encreases the force of it. The Reformation was preceded 

by the discovery of America; As if the Almighty graciously meant to 
open a sanctuary to the persecuted in future years, when home should 
afford neither friendship nor safety. 

The authority of Great Britain over this Continent is a form of 
Government which sooner or later must have an end: And a serious 
mind can draw no true pleasure by looking forward, under the painful 
and positive conviction, that what he calls "the present constitution," 
is merely temporary. As parents, we can have no joy, knowing that 
government is not sufficiently lasting to ensure any thing which we 
may bequeath to posterity: And by a plain method of argument, as 
we are running the next generation into debt, we ought to do the work 
of it, otherwise we use them meanly and pitifully. In order to dis- 
cover the line of our duty rightly, we should take our children in our 
hand, and fix our station a few years farther into life; that eminence 
will present a prospect, which a few present fears and prejudices 
conceal from our sight. 

Though I would carefully avoid giving unnecessary offence, yet 
I am inclined to believe, that all those who espouse the doctrine of 
reconciliation, may be included within the following descriptions. 
Interested men who are not to be trusted, weak men who cannot 
see, prejudiced men who will not see, and a certain set of moderate 
men who think better of the European world than it deserves; and 
this last class, by an ill-judged deliberation, will be the cause of more 
calamities to this Continent, than all the other three. 

It is the good fortune of many to live distant from the scene of 
present sorrow; the evil is not sufficiently brought to their doors 
to make them feel the precariousness with which all American 
property is possessed. But let our imaginations transport us for a 
few moments to Boston; that seat of wretchedness will teach us 
wisdom, and instruct us for ever to renounce a power in whom we 
can have no trust. The inhabitants of that unfortunate city who 



204 AMERICAN PROSE 



but a few months ago were in ease and affluence, have now no other 
alternative than to stay and starve, or turn out to beg. Endangered 
by the fire of their friends if they continue within the city, and plun- 
dered by government if they leave it. In their present condition 
they are prisoners without the hope of redemption, and in a general 
attack for their relief, they would be exposed to the fury of both 
armies. 

Men of passive tempers look somewhat lightly over the offences 
of Britain, and still hoping for the best, are apt to call out, Come, come, 
we shall be friends again for all this. But examine the passions and 
feelings of mankind: bring the doctrine of reconciliation to the touch- 
stone of nature, and then tell me, whether you can hereafter love, 
honour, and faithfully serve the power that hath carried fire and sword 
into your land ? If you cannot do all these, then are you only deceiv- 
ing yourselves, and by your delay bringing ruin upon posterity. Your 
future connection with Britain whom you can neither love nor honour, 
will be forced and unnatural, and being formed only on the plan of 
present convenience, will in a little time, fall into a relapse more 
wretched than the first. But if you say, you can still pass the viola- 
tions over, then I ask, hath your house been burnt? Hath your 
property been destroyed before your face ? Are your wife and 
children destitute of a bed to lie on, or bread to live on ? Have 
you lost a parent or a child by their hands, and yourself the 
ruined and wretched survivor? If you have not, then are you not 
a judge of those who have. But if you have and still can shake 
hands with the murderers, then are you unworthy the name of 
husband, father, friend, or lover, and whatever may be your rank 
or title in life, you have the heart of a coward, and the spirit of a 
sycophant. 

This is not inflaming or exaggerating matters, but trying them 
by those feelings and affections which nature justifies, and without 
which, we should be incapable of discharging the social duties of life, 
or enjoying the felicities of it. I mean not to exhibit horror for the 
purpose of provoking revenge, but to awaken us from fatal and 
unmanly slumbers, that we may pursue determinately some fixed 
object. 'Tis not in the power of England or of Europe to conquer 
America, if she doth not conquer herself by delay and timidity. The 
present winter is worth an age if rightly employed, but if lost or 



THOMAS JEFFERSON 205 

neglected, the whole Continent will partake of the misfortune; and 
there is no punishment which that man doth not deserve, be he who, 
or what, or where he will, that may be the means of sacrificing a 
season so precious and useful. 

"Tis repugnant to reason, to the universal order of things, to all 
examples from former ages, to suppose, that this Continent can long 
remain subject to any external power. The most sanguine in Britain 
doth not think, so. The utmost stretch of human wisdom cannot at 
this time compass a plan, short of separation, which can promise the 
Continent even a year's security. Reconciliation is now a falla- 
cious dream. Nature hath deserted the connection, and art cannot 
supply her place. For as Milton wisely expresses, "never can true 
reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so 
deep." 

Every quiet method for peace hath been ineffectual. Our prayers 
have been rejected with disdain; and hath tended to convince us that 
nothing flatters vanity or confirms obstinacy in Kings more than 
repeated petitioning — and nothing hath contributed more, than that 
very measure, to make the Kings of Europe absolute. Witness Den- 
mark and Sweden. Wherfore, since nothing but blows will do, for 
God's sake let us come to a final separation, and not leave the next 
generation to be cutting throats under the violated unmeaning names 
of parent and child. 



THOMAS JEFFERSON 

THE UNANIMOUS DECLARATION OF THE THIRTEEN 
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for 
one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them 
with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the 
separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of 
Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of man- 
kind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them 

to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, 

that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator 
with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty 



2o6 AMERICAN PROSE 



and the pursuit of Happiness.— That to secure these rights, Govern- 
ments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the 
consent of the governed, — That whenever any Form of Government 
becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to 
alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its 
foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such 
form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and 
Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long 
established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and 
accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed 
to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abol- 
ishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long 
train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object 
evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their 
right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide 
new Guards for their future security. — Such has been the patient 
sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which 
constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The 
history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated 
injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment 
of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts 

be submitted to a candid world. He has refused his Assent to 

Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good. He 

has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing 
importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should 
be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to 
attend to them. He has refused to pass other Laws for the accom- 
modation of large districts of people, unless those people would 
relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right 

inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only. He has 

called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, 
and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole 

purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures. 

He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing 

with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people. He 

has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others 
to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihila- 
tion, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State 



THOMAS JEFFERSON 207 

remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion 

from without, and convulsions within. He has endeavoured to 

prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing 
the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to 
encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new 
Appropriations of Lands. He has obstructed the Administra- 
tion of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judi- 
ciary powers. He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, 

for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their 

salaries. He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent 

hither swarms of Officers to harass our people, and eat out their 

substance. He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing 

Armies without the Consent of our legislatures. He has affected 

to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power. 

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction 

foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving 
his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation: — For Quartering 
large bodies of armed troops among us: — For protecting them, by 
a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should 
commit on the Inhabitants of these States: — For cutting off our 
Trade with all parts of the world: — For imposing Taxes on us without 
our Consent: — For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of 
Trial by Jury: — For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for 
pretended offences : — For abolishing the free System of English Laws 
in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary govern- 
ment, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an 
example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule 
into these Colonies: — For taking away our Charters, abolishing our 
most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our 
Governments: — For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring 
themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases what- 
soever. — He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out 
of his Protection and waging War against us : — He has plundered our 
seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives 
of our people. — He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign 
Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, 
already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely 
paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head 



2o8 AMERICAN PROSE 



of a civilized nation. — He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken 
Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to 
become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall 
themselves by their Hands. — He has excited domestic insurrections 
amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our 
frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, 
is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions. 
In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress 
in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered 
only by repeated injury. A Prince, whose character is thus marked 
by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a 
free people. Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish 
brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts 
by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. 
We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and 
settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and 
magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common 
kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably inter- 
rupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf 
to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, 
acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold 
them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace 

Friends. 

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States oe 
America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme 
Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name 
and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly 
publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right 
ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved 
from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political con- 
nection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought 
to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, 
they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, 
establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Inde- 
pendent States may of right do. And for the support of this 

Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Provi- 
dence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and 
our sacred Honor. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON 209 



GEORGE WASHINGTON 

ANSWER TO CONGRESS ON HIS APPOINTMENT AS 
COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF 

In Congress, 16 June, 1775. 
Mr. President, 

Though I am truly sensible of the high honor done me, in this 
appointment, yet I feel great distress, from a consciousness that my 
abilities and military experience may not be equal to the extensive and 
important trust. However, as the Congress desire it, I will enter upon 
the momentous duty, and exert every power I possess in their service, 
and for the support of the glorious cause. I beg they will accept my 
cordial thanks for this distinguished testimony of their approbation. 

But, lest some unlucky event should happen, unfavorable to my 
reputation, I beg it may be remembered by every gentleman in the 
room, that I, this day, declare with the utmost sincerity, I do not 
think myself equal to the command I am honored with. 

As to pay, ,Sir, I beg leave to assure the Congress, that, as no 
pecuniary consideration could have tempted me to accept this arduous 
employment, at the expense of my domestic ease and happiness, I do 
not wish to make any profit from it. I will keep an exact account 
of my expenses. Those, I doubt not, they will discharge; and that 
is all I desire. 

TO MRS. MARTHA WASHINGTON 

Philadelphia, 18 June, 1775. 
My Dearest, 

I am now set down to write to you on a subject, which fills me 
with inexpressible concern, and this concern is greatly aggravated 
and increased, when I reflect upon the uneasiness I know it will give 
you. It has been determined in Congress, that the whole army raised 
for the defence of the American cause shall be put under my care, and 
that it is necessary for me to proceed immediately to Boston to take 
upon me the command of it. 

You may believe me, my dear Patsy, when I assure you, in the 
most solemn manner, that, so far from seeking this appointment, I 
have used every endeavour in my power to avoid it, not only from my 



2io AMERICAN PROSE 



unwillingness to part with you and the family, but from a conscious- 
ness of its being a trust too great for my capacity, and that I should 
enjoy more real happiness in one month with you at home, than I 
have the most distant prospect of finding abroad, if my stay were to 
be seven times seven years. But as it has been a kind of destiny, that 
has thrown me upon this service, I shall hope that my undertaking it 
is designed to answer some good purpose. You might, and I suppose 
did perceive, from the tenor of my letters, that I was apprehensive 
I could not avoid this appointment, as I did not pretend to intimate 
when I should return. That was the case. It was utterly out of my 
power to refuse this appointment, without exposing my character to 
such censures, as would have reflected dishonor upon myself, and 
given pain to my friends. This, I am sure, could not, and ought not, 
to be pleasing to you, and must have lessened me considerably in my 
own esteem. I shall rely, therefore, confidently on that Providence, 
which has heretofore preserved and been bountiful to me, not doubt- 
ing but that I shall return safe to you in the fall. I shall feel no pain 
from the toil or the danger of the campaign; my unhappiness will 
flow from the uneasiness I know you will feel from being left alone. 
I therefore beg, that you will summon your whole fortitude, and pass 
your time as agreeably as possible. Nothing will give me so much 
sincere satisfaction as to hear this, and to hear it from your own pen. 
My earnest and ardent desire is, that you would pursue any plan 
that is most likely to produce content, and a tolerable degree of 
tranquillity; as it must add greatly to my uneasy feelings to hear, 
that you are dissatisfied or complaining at what I really could not 
avoid. 

As life is always uncertain, and common prudence dictates to 
every man the necessity of settling his temporal concerns, while it is 
in his power, and while the mind is calm and undisturbed, I have, 
since I came to this place (for I had not time to do it before I left 
home) got Colonel Pendleton to draft a will for me, by the directions 
I gave him, which will I now enclose. The provision made for you in 
case of my death will, I hope, be agreeable. 

I shall add nothing more, as I have several letters to write, but 
to desire that you will remember me to your friends, and to assure 
you that I am, with the most unfeigned regard, my dear Patsy, 
your affectionate, &c. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON 2 II 

FROM 

A LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT OF CONGRESS 

Valley Forge, 23 December, 1777. 
Sir, 

Full as I was in my representation of the matters in the com- 
missary's department yesterday, fresh and more powerful reasons 
oblige me to add, that I am now convinced beyond a doubt, that, 
unless some great and capital change suddenly takes place in that 
line, this army must inevitably be reduced to one or other of these 
three things; starve, dissolve, or disperse in order to obtain sub- 
sistence in the best manner they can. Rest assured, Sir, this is not 
an exaggerated picture, and that I have abundant reason to suppose 
what I say. 

Yesterday afternoon, receiving information that the enemy in 
force had left the city, and were advancing towards Derby with the 
apparent design to forage, and draw subsistence from that part of 
the country, I ordered the troops to be in readiness, that I might 
give every opposition in my power; when behold, to my great morti- 
fication, I was not only informed, but convinced, that the men were 
unable to stir on account of provision, and that a dangerous mutiny, 
begun the night before, and which with difficulty was suppressed 
by the spirited exertions of some officers, was still much to be appre- 
hended for want of this article. This brought forth the only com- 
missary in the purchasing line in this camp; and, with him, this 
melancholy and alarming truth, that he had not a single hoof of any 
kind to slaughter, and not more than twenty-five barrels of flour! 
From hence form an opinion of our situation when I add, that he 
could not tell when to expect any. 

All I could do, under these circumstances, was to send out a few 
light parties to watch and harass the enemy, whilst other parties 
were instantly detached different ways to collect, if possible, as much 
provision as would satisfy the present pressing wants of the soldiery. 
But will this answer? No, Sir; three or four days of bad weather 
would prove our destruction. What then is to become of the army 
this winter ? And if we are so often without provisions now, what 
is to become of us in the spring, when our force will be collected, with 
the aid perhaps of militia to take advantage of an early campaign, 
before the enemy can be reinforced ? These are considerations of 



212 AMERICAN PROSE 



great magnitude, meriting the closest attention; and they will, when 
my own reputation is so intimately connected with the event and to 
be affected by it, justify my saying, that the present commissaries 
are by no means equal to the execution of the office, or that the 
disaffection of the people is past all belief. The misfortune, however, 
does in my opinion proceed from both causes; and, though I have 
been tender heretofore of giving any opinion, or lodging complaints, 
as the change in that department took place contrary to my judgment, 
and the consequences thereof were predicted; yet, finding that the 
inactivity of the army, whether for want of provisions, clothes, or 
other essentials, is charged to my account, not only by the common 
vulgar but by those in power, it is time to speak plain in exculpation 
of myself. With truth, then, I can declare, that no man in my 
opinion ever had his measures more impeded than I have, by every 
department of the army. 

Since the month of July we have had no assistance from the 
quartermaster-general, and to want of assistance from this depart- 
ment the commissary-general charges great part of his deficiency. 
To this I am to add, that, notwithstanding it is a standing order, and 
often repeated, that the troops shall always have two days' provisions 
by them, that they might be ready at any sudden call; yet an oppor- 
tunity has scarcely ever offered, of taking an advantage of the enemy, 
that has not been either totally obstructed, or greatly impeded, on 
this account. And this, the great and crying evil, is not all. The 
soap, vinegar, and other articles allowed by Congress, we see none 
of, nor have we seen them, I believe, since the battle of Brandywine. 
The first, indeed, we have now little occasion for; few men having 
more than one shirt, many only the moiety of one, and some none 
at all. In addition to which, as a proof of the little benefit received 
from a clothier-general, and as a further proof of the inability of an 
army, under the circumstances of this, to perform the common 
duties of soldiers, (besides a number of men confined to hospitals for 
want of shoes, and others in farmers' houses on the same account,) 
we have, by a field-return this day made, no less than two thousand 
eight hundred and ninety-eight men now in camp unfit for duty, 
because they are barefoot and otherwise naked. By the same return 
it appears, that our whole strength in Continental troops, including 
the eastern brigades, which have joined us since the surrender of 



GEORGE WASHINGTON 213 

General Burgoyne, exclusive of the Maryland troops sent to Wilming- 
ton, amounts to no more than eight thousand two hundred in camp fit 
for duty; notwithstanding which, and that since the 4th instant, 
our numbers fit for duty, from the hardships and exposures they have 
undergone, particularly on account of blankets (numbers having 
been obliged, and still are, to sit up all night by fires, instead of 
taking comfortable rest in a natural and common way) , have decreased 
near two thousand men. 

We find gentlemen, without knowing whether the army was 
really going into winter-quarters or not (for I am sure no resolution 
of mine would warrant the Remonstrance), reprobating the measure 
as much as if they thought the soldiers were made of stocks or stones, 
and equally insensible of frost and snow; and moreover, as if they 
conceived it easily practicable for an inferior army, under the dis- 
advantages I have described ours to be, which are by no means 
exaggerated, to confine a superior one, in all respects well-appointed 
and provided for a winter's campaign, within the city of Philadelphia, 
and to cover from depredation and waste the States of Pennsylvania 
and Jersey. But what makes this matter still more extraordinary 
in my eye is, that these very gentlemen, — who were well apprized 
of the nakedness of the troops from ocular demonstration, who 
thought their own soldiers worse clad than others, and who advised 
me near a month ago to postpone the execution of a plan I was about 
to adopt, in consequence of a resolve of Congress for seizing clothes, 
under strong assurances that an ample supply would be collected in 
ten days agreeably to a decree of the State (not one article of which, 
by the by, is yet come to hand), — should think a winter's campaign, 
and the covering of these States from the invasion of an enemy, so 
easy and practicable a business. I can assure those gentlemen, 
that it is a much easier and less distressing thing to draw remon- 
strances in a comfortable room by a good fireside, than to occupy a 
cold, bleak hill, and sleep under frost and snow, without clothes or 
blankets. However, although they seem to have little feeling for 
the naked and distressed soldiers, I feel superabundantly for them, 
and, from my soul, I pity those miseries, which it is neither in my 
power to relieve or prevent. 

It is for these reasons, therefore, that I have dwelt upon the 
subject ; and it adds not a little to my other difficulties and distress 



214 AMERICAN PROSE 



to find, that much more is expected of me than is possible to be per- 
formed, and that upon the ground of safety and policy I am obliged 
to conceal the true state of the army from public view, and thereby 

expose myself to detraction and calumny 

I have the honor to be, &c. 

FROM 

FAREWELL ADDRESS 

Towards the preservation of your Government and the per- 
manency of your present happy state, it is requisite, not only that 
you steadily discountenance irregular oppositions to its acknowledged 
authority, but also that you resist with care the spirit of innovation 
upon its principles however specious the pretexts. — One method 
of assault may be to effect, in the forms of the Constitution, altera- 
tions which will impair the energy of the system, and thus to under- 
mine what cannot be directly overthrown. — In all the changes to 
which you may be invited, remember that time and habit are at least 
as necessary to fix the true character of Governments, as of other 
human institutions — that experience is the surest standard, by which 
to test the real tendency of the existing Constitution of a Country — 
that facility in changes upon the credit of mere hypothesis and opinion 
exposes to perpetual change, from the endless variety of hypothesis 
and opinion: — and remember, especially, that for the efficient manage- 
ment of your common interests, in a country so extensive as ours, a 
Government of as much vigour as is consistent with the perfect 
security of Liberty is indispensable. — Liberty itself will find in such a 
Government, with powers properly distributed and adjusted, its 
surest Guardian. — It is indeed little else than a name, where the 
Government is too feeble to withstand the enterprises of faction, to 
confine each member of the Society within the limits prescribed by 
the laws, and to maintain all in the secure and tranquil enjoyment 
of the rights of person and property 

Against the insidious wiles of foreign influence, I conjure you to 
believe me, fellow-citizens, the jealousy of a free people ought to be 
constantly awake, since history and experience prove that foreign 
influence is one of the most baneful foes of Republican Government. 
— But that jealousy to be useful must be impartial; else it becomes 



GEORGE WASHINGTON 215 

the instrument of the very influence to be avoided, instead of a 
defence against it. — Excessive partiality for one foreign nation 
and excessive dislike of another, cause those whom they actuate to 
see danger only on one side, and serve to veil and even second the 
arts of influence on the other. — Real Patriots, who may resist the 
intrigues of the favourite, are liable to become suspected and odious; 
while its tools and dupes usurp the applause and confidence of the 
people, to surrender their interests. — 

The great rule of conduct for us, in regard to foreign Nations is, in 
extending our commercial relations, to have with them as little 
Political connection as possible. — So far as we have already formed 
engagements let them be fulfilled with perfect good faith. — Here 
let us stop. — 

Europe has a set of primary interests, which to us have none, or a 
very remote relation. — Hence she must be engaged in frequent 
controversies, the causes of which are essentially foreign to our con- 
cerns. — Hence therefore it must be unwise in us to implicate our- 
selves by artificial ties in the ordinary vicissitudes of her politics, 
or the ordinary combinations and collisions of her friendships, or 
enmities. 

Our detached and distant situation invites and enables us to pur- 
sue a different course. — If we remain one People, under an efficient 
government, the period is not far off, when we may defy material 
injury from external annoyance; when we may take such an attitude 
as will cause the neutrality we may at any time resolve upon to be 
scrupulously respected. — When belligerent nations, under the 
impossibility of making acquisitions upon us, will not lightly hazard 
the giving us provocation; when we may choose peace or war, as our 
interest guided by justice shall counsel. — 

Why forego the advantages of so peculiar a situation ? — Why quit 
our own to stand upon foreign ground ? — Why, by interweaving our 
destiny with that of any part of Europe, entangle our peace and 
prosperity in the toils of European ambition, rivalship, interest, 
humour or caprice ? — 

'Tis our true policy to steer clear of permanent alliances, with 
any portion of the foreign world; — so far, I mean, as we are now at 
liberty to do it — for let me not be understood as capable of patroniz- 
ing infidelity to existing engagements, (I hold the maxim no less 



216 AMERICAN PROSE 



applicable to public than to private affairs, that honesty is always the 
best policy) . — I repeat it therefore let those engagements be observed 
in their genuine sense. — But in my opinion it is unnecessary and would 
be unwise to extend them. — 



ALEXANDER HAMILTON 

FROM 

THE FEDERALIST 

FURTHER DEFECTS OF THE PRESENT CONSTITUTION 

In addition to the defects already enumerated in the existing 
federal system, there are others of not less importance, which concur 
in rendering it altogether unfit for the administration of the affairs of 
the union. . . 

The want of a power to regulate commerce is by all parties allowed 
to be of the number. The utility of such a power has been antici- 
pated under the first head of our enquiries; and for this reason as 
well as from the universal conviction entertained upon the subject, 
little need be added in this place. It is indeed evident, on the most 
superficial view, that there is no object, either as it respects the 
interests of trade or finance that more strongly demands a federal 
superintendence. The want of it has already operated as a bar to the 
formation of beneficial treaties with foreign powers; and has given 
occasions of dissatisfaction between the states. No nation acquainted 
with the nature of our political association would be unwise enough 
to enter into stipulations with the United States, conceding on their 
part privileges of importance, while they were apprised that the 
engagements on the part of the union, might at any moment be 
violated by its members; and while they found from experience that 
they might enjoy every advantage they desired in our markets, 
without granting us any return, but such as their momentary con- 
venience might suggest. It is not therefore to be wondered at, that 
Mr. Jenkinson in ushering into the house of commons a bill for 
regulating the temporary intercourse between the two countries, 
should preface its introduction by a declaration that similar provisions 
in former bills had been found to answer every purpose to the com- 
merce of Great Britain, and that it would be prudent to persist in the 



ALEXANDER HAMILTON 217 

plan until it should appear whether the American government was 
likely or not to acquire greater consistency. 

Several states have endeavoured by separate prohibitions, 
restrictions and exclusions, to influence the conduct of that kingdom 
in this particular; but the want of concert, arising from the want of a 
general authority, and from clashing and dissimilar views in the 
states, has hitherto frustrated every experiment of the kind; and 
will continue to do so as long as the same obstacles to an uniformity 
of measures continue to exist. 

The interfering and unneighbourly regulations of some states, 
contrary to the true spirit of the union, have in different instances 
given just cause of umbrage and complaint to others; and it is to be 
feared that examples of this nature, if not restrained by a national 
controul, would be multiplied and extended till they became not less 
serious sources of animosity and discord, than injurious impediments 
to the intercourse between the different parts of the confederacy. 
"The commerce of the German empire, is in continual trammels from 
the multiplicity of the duties which the several princes and states 
exact upon the merchandizes passing through their territories; by 
means of which the fine streams and navigable rivers with which 
Germany is so happily watered, are rendered almost useless." 
Though the genius of the people of this country might never permit 
this description to be strictly applicable to us, yet we may reasonably 
expect, from the gradual conflicts of state regulations, that the citizens 
of each, would at length come to be considered and treated by the 
others in no better light than that of foreigners and aliens. 

The power of raising armies, by the most obvious construction 
of the articles of the confederation, is merely a power of making 
requisitions upon the states for quotas of men. This practice, in the 
course of the late war, was found replete with obstructions to a 
vigorous and to an economical system of defence. It gave birth to 
a competition between the states, which created a kind of auction 
for men. In order to furnish the quotas required of them, they out- 
bid each other, till bounties grew to an enormous and insupportable 
size. The hope of a still further increase afforded an inducement 
to those who were disposed to serve to procrastinate their inlistment; 
and disinclined them to engaging for any considerable periods. Hence 
slow and scanty levies of men in the most critical emergencies 



218 AMERICAN PROSE 



of our affairs — short inlistments at an unparalleled expence — 
continual fluctuations in the troops, ruinous to their discipline, 
and subjecting the public safety frequently to the perilous crisis of a 
disbanded army. — Hence also those oppressive expedients for raising 
men which were upon several occasions practised, and which nothing 
but the enthusiasm of liberty would have induced the people to 
endure. 

This method of raising troops is not more unfriendly to economy 
and vigor, than it is to an equal distribution of the burthen. The 
states near the seat of war, influenced by motives of self preservation 
made efforts to furnish their quotas, which even exceeded their 
abilities, while those at a distance from danger were for the most 
part as remiss as the others were diligent in their exertions. The 
immediate pressure of this inequality was not in this case, as in that 
of the contributions of money, alleviated by the hope of a final 
liquidation. The states which did not pay their proportions of 
money, might at least be charged with their deficiencies; but no 
account could be formed of the deficiencies in the supplies of men. 
We shall not, however, see much reason to regret the want of this 
hope, when we consider how little prospect there is, that the most 
delinquent states ever will be able to make compensation for their 
pecuniary failures. The system of quotas and requisitions, whether 
it be applied to men or money, is in every view a system of imbecility 
in the union, and of inequality and injustice among the members. 

The right of equal suffrage among the states is another exception- 
able part of the confederation. Every idea of proportion, and eveiy 
rule of fair representation conspire to condemn a principle, which 
gives to Rhode-Island an equal weight in the scale of power with 
Massachusetts, or Connecticut, or New- York; and to Delaware, 
an equal voice in the national deliberations with Pennsylvania or 
Virginia, or North-Carolina. Its operation contradicts that funda- 
mental maxim of republican government, which requires that the 
sense of the majority should prevail. Sophistry may reply, that 
sovereigns are equal, and that a majority of the votes of the states 
will be a majority of confederated America. But this kind of logical 
legerdemain will never counteract the plain suggestions of justice 
and common sense. It may happen that this majority of states 
is a small minority of the people of America; and two thirds of the 



ALEXANDER HAMILTON 219 

people of America, could not long be persuaded, upon the credit of 
artificial distinctions and syllogistic subtleties, to submit their inter- 
ests to the management and disposal of one third. The larger states 
would after a while revolt from the idea of receiving the law from the 
smaller. To acquiesce in such a privation of their due importance in 
the political scale, would be not merely to be insensible to the love 
of power, but even to sacrifice the desire of equality. It is neither 
rational to expect the first, nor just to require the last — the smaller 
states considering how peculiarly their safety and welfare depend 
on union, ought readily to renounce a pretension, which, if not 
relinquished would prove fatal to its duration. 

It may be objected to this, that not seven but nine states, or 
two thirds of the whole number must consent to the most important 
resolutions; and it may be thence inferred, that nine states would 
always comprehend a majority of the inhabitants of the union. But 
this does not obviate the impropriety of an equal vote between states 
of the most unequal dimensions and populousness; nor is the inference 
accurate in point of fact; for we can enumerate nine states which 
contain less than a majority of the people; and it is constitutionally 
possible, that these nine may give the vote. Besides there are 
matters of considerable moment determinable by a bare majority; 
and there are others, concerning which doubts have been entertained, 
which if interpreted in favor of the sufficiency of a vote of seven states, 
would extend its operation to interests of the first magnitude. In 
addition to this, it is to be observed, that there is a probability of an 
increase in the number of states, and no provision for a proportional 
augmentation of the ratio of votes. 

But this is not all; what at first sight may seem a remedy, is in 
reality a poison. To give a minority a negative upon the majority 
(which is always the case where more than a majority is requisite to a 
decision) is in its tendency to subject the sense of the greater number 
to that of the lesser number. Congress from the non attendance of a 
few states have been frequently in the situation of a Polish diet, 
where a single veto has been sufficient to put a stop to all their 
movements. A sixtieth part of the union, which is about the pro- 
portion of Delaware and Rhode-Island, has several times been able 
to oppose an entire bar to its operations. This is one of those refine- 
ments which in practice has an effect, the reverse of what is expected 



220 AMERICAN PROSE 



from it in theory. The necessity of unanimity in public bodies, or 
of something approaching towards it, has been founded upon a suppo- 
sition that it would contribute to security. But its real operation is 
t:o embarrass the administration, to destroy the energy of govern- 
ment, and to substitute the pleasure, caprice or artifices of an insignif- 
icant, turbulent or corrupt junto, to the regular deliberations and 
decisions of a respectable majority. In those emergencies of a nation, 
in which the goodness or badness, the weakness or strength of its 
government, is of the greatest importance, there is commonly a 
necessity for action. The public business must in some way or other 
go forward. If a pertinacious minority can controul the opinion 
of a majority respecting the best mode of conducting it; the ma- 
jority, in order that something may be done, must conform to the 
views of the minority; and thus the sense of the smaller number will 
over rule that of the greater and give a tone to the national proceed- 
ings. Hence tedious delays — continual negotiation and intrigue — con- 
temptible compromises of the public good. And yet in such a system, 
it is even happy when such compromises can take place : For upon 
some occasions, things will not admit of accommodation; and then 
the measures of government must be injuriously suspended or fatally 
defeated. It is often, by the impracticability of obtaining the con- 
currence of the necessary number of votes, kept in a state of inaction. 
Its situation must always savour of weakness — sometimes border 
upon anarchy. 

It is not difficult to discover that a principle of this kind gives 
greater scope to foreign corruption as well as to domestic faction, 
than that which permits the sense of the majority to decide; though 
the contrary of this has been presumed. The mistake has proceeded 
from not attending with due care to the mischiefs that may be 
occasioned by obstructing the progress of government at certain 
critical seasons. When the concurrence of a large number is required 
by the constitution to the doing of any national act, we are apt to rest 
satisfied that all is safe, because nothing improper will be likely to be 
done; but we forget how much good may be prevented, and how 
much ill may be produced, by the power of hindering that which is 
necessary from being done, and of keeping affairs in the same un- 
favourable posture in which they may happen to stand at particular 
periods. 



ALEXANDER HAMILTON 221 

Suppose for instance we were engaged in a war, in conjunction 
with one foreign nation against another. Suppose the necessity of 
our situation demanded peace, and the interest or ambition of our 
ally led him to seek the prosecution of the war, with views that might 
justify us in making separate terms. In such a state of things this 
ally of ours would evidently find it much easier by his bribes and his 
intrigues to tie up the hands of government from making peace, 
where two thirds of all the votes were requisite to that object, than 
where a simple majority would suffice. In the first case he would 
have to corrupt a smaller number; in the last a greater number. 
Upon the same principle it would be much easier for a foreign power 
with which we were at war, to perplex our councils and embarrass 
our exertions. And in a commercial view we may be subjected to 
similar inconveniences. A nation with which we might have a 
treaty of commerce, could with much greater facility prevent our 
forming a connection with her competitor in trade; though such a 
connection should be ever so beneficial to ourselves. 

Evils of this description ought not to be regarded as imaginary. 
One of the weak sides of republics, among their numerous advantages, 
is, that they afford too easy an inlet to foreign corruption. An heredi- 
tary monarch, though often disposed to sacrifice his subjects to his 
ambition, has so great a personal interest in the government, and in 
the external glory of the nation, that it is not easy for a foreign power 
to give him an equivalent for what he would sacrifice by treachery 
to the state. The world has accordingly been witness to few examples 
of this species of royal prostitution, though there have been abundant 
specimens of every other kind. 

In republics, persons elevated from the mass of the community, 
by the suffrages of their fellow citizens, to stations of great pre- 
eminence and power, may find compensations for betraying their 
trust, which to any but minds actuated by superior virtue may appear 
to exceed the proportion of interest they have in the common stock, 
and to over-balance the obligations of duty. Hence it is that history 
furnishes us with so many mortifying examples of the prevalency of 
foreign corruption in republican governments. How much this 
contributed to the ruin of the ancient commonwealths has been 
already disclosed. It is well known that the deputies of the 
United Provinces have, in various instances, been purchased by the 



222 AMERICAN PROSE 



emissaries of the neighbouring kingdoms. The earl of Chesterfield 
(if my memory serves me right) in a letter to his court, intimates that 
his success in an important negotiation, must depend on his obtaining 
a major's commission for one of those deputies. And in Sweden, the 
parties were alternately bought by France and England, in so bare- 
faced and notorious a manner that it excited universal disgust in the 
nation; and was a principal cause that the most limited monarch in 
Europe, in a single day, without tumult, violence, or opposition, 
became one of the most absolute and uncontrolled. 

A circumstance, which crowns the defects of the confederation, 
remains yet to be mentioned^the want of a judiciary power. Laws 
are a dead letter without courts to expound and define their true 
meaning and operation. The treaties of the United States, to have 
any force at all, must be considered as part of the law of the land. 
Their true import, as far as respects individuals, must, like all other 
laws, be ascertained by judicial determinations. To produce uni- 
formity in these determinations, they ought to be submitted in the 
last resort, to one supreme tribunal. And this tribunal ought to be 
instituted under the same authority which forms the treaties them- 
selves. These ingredients are both indispensible. If there is in each 
state a court of final jurisdiction, there may be as many different 
final determinations on the same point, as there are courts. There 
are endless diversities in the opinions of men. We often see not 
only different courts, but the judges of the same court differing from 
each other. To avoid the confusion which would unavoidably result 
from the contradictory decisions of a number of independent judica- 
tories, all nations have found it necessary to establish one court 
paramount to the rest, possessing a general superintendance, and 
authorised to settle and declare in the last resort an uniform rule of 
civil justice. 

This is the more necessary where the frame of the government is 
so compounded, that the laws of the whole are in danger of being 
contravened by the laws of the parts. In this case, if the particular 
tribunals are invested with a right of ultimate jurisdiction, besides the 
contradictions to be expected from difference of opinion, there will 
be much to fear from the bias of local views and prejudices, and from 
the interference of local regulations. As often as such an inter- 
ference was to happen, there would be reason to apprehend, that the 



ALEXANDER HAMILTON 223 

provisions of the particular laws might be preferred to those of the 
general laws; from the deference with which men in office naturally 
look up to that authority to which they owe their official existence. 
The treaties of the United States, under the present constitution, are 
liable to the infractions of thirteen different legislatures, and as many 
different courts of final jurisdiction, acting under the authority of 
those legislatures. The faith, the reputation, the peace of the whole 
union, are thus continually at the mercy of the prejudices, the passions, 
and the interests of every member of which it is composed. Is it 
possible that foreign nations can either respect or confide in such a 
government ? Is it possible that the people of America will longer 
consent to trust their honor, their happiness, their safety, on so pre- 
carious a foundation ? 

In this review of the confederation, I have confined myself to the 
exhibition of its most material defects; passing over those imperfec- 
tions in its details, by which even a considerable part of the power 
intended to be conferred upon it, has been in a great measure rendered 
abortive. It must be by this time evident to all men of reflection, 
who are either free from erronious prepossessions or can divest them- 
selves of them, that it is a system so radically vicious and unsound, 
as to admit not of amendment but by an entire change in its leading 
features and characters. 

The organization of congress, is itself utterly improper for the 
exercise of those powers which are necessary to be deposited in the 
union. A single assembly may be a proper receptacle of those slender, 
or rather fettered authorities, which have been heretofore delegated 
to the federal head; but it would be inconsistent with all the principles 
of good government, to intrust it with those additional powers which 
even the moderate and more rational adversaries of the proposed 
constitution admit, ought to reside in the United States. If that 
plan should not be adopted; and if the necessity of union should be 
able to withstand the ambitious aims of those men, who may indulge 
magnificent schemes of personal aggrandizement from its dissolution; 
the probability would be, that we should run into the project of con- 
fering supplementary powers upon congress as they are now consti- 
tuted.' And either the machine, from the intrinsic feebleness of its 
structure, will moulder into pieces in spite of our ill-judged efforts 
to prop it; or by successive augmentations of its force and energy, 



224 AMERICAN PROSE 



as necessity might prompt, we shall finally accumulate in a single 
body, all the most important prerogatives of sovereignty; and thus 
entail upon our posterity, one of the most execrable forms of govern- 
ment that human infatuation ever contrived. Thus we should 
create in reality that very tyranny, which the adversaries of the 
new constitution either are, or affect to be solicitous to avert. 

It has not a little contributed to the infirmities of the existing 
federal system, that it never had a ratification by the people. Rest- 
ing on no better foundation than the consent of the several legislatures, 
it has been exposed to frequent and intricate questions concerning the 
validity of its powers; and has in some instances given birth to the 
enormous doctrine of a right of legislative repeal. Owing its rati- 
fication to the law of a state, it has been contended, that the same 
authority might repeal the law by which it was ratified. However 
gross a heresy it may be to maintain that a party to a compact has a 
right to revoke that compact, the doctrine itself has had respectable 
advocates. The possibility of a question of this nature, proves the 
necessity of laying the foundations of our national government 
deeper than in the mere sanction of delegated authority. The fabric 
of American empire ought to rest on the solid basis of the consent 
of the people. The streams of national power ought to flow 
immediately from that pure original fountain of all legitimate 
authority. 



PUBLIUS. 



WASHINGTON IRVING 

PROM 

A HISTORY OF NEW YORK 

It was in the year of our Lord 1629 that Mynheer Wouter Van 
Twiller was appointed governor of the province of Nieuw Nederlandts, 
under the commission and control of their High Mightinesses the 
Lords States General of the United Netherlands, and the privileged 
West India Company. 

This renowned old gentleman arrived at New Amsterdam in the 
merry month of June, the sweetest month in all the year; when dan 
Apollo seems to dance up the transparent firmament, — when the 



WASHINGTON IRVING 225 

robin, the thrush, and a thousand other wanton songsters, make the 
woods to resound with amorous ditties, and the luxurious little boblin- 
con revels among the clover-blossoms of the meadows, — all which 
happy coincidence persuaded the old dames of New Amsterdam, who 
were skilled in the art of foretelling events, that this was to be a 
happy and prosperous administration. 

The renowned Wouter (or Walter) Van Twiller was descended 
from a long line of Dutch burgomasters, who had successively dozed 
away their lives, and grown fat upon the bench of magistracy in 
Rotterdam; and who had comported themselves with such singular 
wisdom and propriety, that they were never either heard or talked of 
— which, next to being universally applauded, should be the object 
of ambition of all magistrates and rulers. There are two opposite 
ways by which some men make a figure in the world: one, by talking 
faster than they think, and the other, by holding their tongues and 
not thinking at all. By the first, many a smatterer acquires the 
reputation of a man of quick parts; by the other, many a dunderpate, 
like the owl, the stupidest of birds, comes to be considered the very 
type of wisdom. This, by the way, is a casual remark, which I would 
not, for the universe, have it thought I apply to Governor Van Twiller. 
It is true he was a man shut up within himself, like an oyster, and 
rarely spoke, except in monosyllables; but then it was allowed he 
seldom said a foolish thing. So invincible was his gravity that he 
was never known to laugh or even to smile through the whole course 
of a long and prosperous life. Nay, if a joke were uttered in his 
presence, that set light-minded hearers in a roar, it was observed 
to throw him into a state of perplexity. Sometimes he would deign 
to inquire into the matter, and when, after much explanation, the 
joke was made as plain as a pikestaff, he would continue to smoke 
his pipe in silence, and at length, knocking out the ashes, would 
exclaim, "Well! I see nothing in all that to laugh about." 

With all his reflective habits, he never made up his mind on a 
subject. His adherents accounted for this by the astonishing magni- 
tude of his ideas. He conceived every subject on so grand a scale that 
he had not room in his head to turn it over and examine both sides 
of it. Certain it is, that, if any matter were propounded to him on 
which ordinary mortals would rashly determine at first glance, he 
would put on a vague, mysterious look, shake his capacious head, 



226 AMERICAN PROSE 



smoke some time in profound silence, and at length observe, that 
"he had his doubts about the matter"; which gained him the repu- 
tation of a man slow of belief and not easily imposed upon. What is 
more, it gained him a lasting name; for to this habit of the mind has 
been attributed his surname of Twiller; which is said to be a corrup- 
tion of the original Twijfler, or, in plain English, Doubter. 

The person of this illustrious old gentleman was formed and 
proportioned, as though it had been moulded by the hands of some 
cunning Dutch statuary, as a model of majesty and lordly grandeur. 
He was exactly five feet six inches in height, and six feet five inches 
in circumference. His head was a perfect sphere, and of such stu- 
pendous dimensions, that dame Nature, with all her sex's ingenuity, 
would have been puzzled to construct a neck capable of supporting it ; 
wherefore she wisely declined the attempt, and settled it firmly on the 
top of his backbone, just between the shoulders. His body was 
oblong and particularly capacious at bottom; which was wisely 
ordered by Providence, seeing that he was a man of sedentary habits, 
and very averse to the idle labor of walking. His legs were short, 
but sturdy in proportion to the weight they had to sustain; so that 
when erect he had not a little the appearance of a beer-barrel on skids. 
His face, that infallible index of the mind, presented a vast expanse, 
unfurrowed by any of those lines and angles which disfigure the 
human countenance with what is termed expression. Two small 
gray eyes twinkled feebly in the midst, like two stars of lesser magni- 
tude in a hazy firmament; and his full-fed cheeks, which seemed 
to have taken toll of everything that went into his mouth, were 
curiously mottled and streaked with dusky red, like a spitzenberg 
apple. 

His habits were as regular as his person. He daily took his four 
stated meals, appropriating exactly an hour to each; he smoked and 
doubted eight hours, and he slept the remaining twelve of the four- 
and-twenty. Such was the renowned Wouter Van Twiller, — a true 
philosopher, for his mind was either elevated above, or tranquilly 
settled below, the cares and perplexities of this world. He had lived 
in it for years, without feeling the least curiosity to know whether 
the sun revolved round it, or it round the sun; and he had watched, 
for at least half a century, the smoke curling from his pipe to the 
ceiling, without once troubling his head with any of those numerous 



WASHINGTON IRVING 227 

theories by which a philosopher would have perplexed his brain, in 
accounting for its rising above the surrounding atmosphere. 

In his council he presided with great state and solemnity. He 
sat in a huge chair of solid oak, hewn in the celebrated forest of the 
Hague, fabricated by an experienced timmerman of Amsterdam, 
and curiously carved about the arms and feet, into exact imitations of 
gigantic eagle's claws. Instead of a sceptre, he swayed a long Turkish 
pipe, wrought with jasmin and amber, which had been presented to a 
stadtholder of Holland at the conclusion of a treaty with one of the 
petty Barbary powers. In this stately chair would he sit, and this 
magnificent pipe would he smoke, shaking his right knee with a con- 
stant motion, and fixing his eye for hours together upon a little print 
of Amsterdam, which hung in a black frame against the opposite wall 
of the council-chamber. Nay, it has even been said, that when any 
deliberation of extraordinary length and intricacy was on the carpet, 
the renowned Wouter would shut his eyes for full two hours at a 
time, that he might not be disturbed by external objects; and at 
such times the internal commotion of his mind was evinced by certain 
regular guttural sounds, which his admirers declared were merely 
the noise of conflict, made by his contending doubts and opinions. 

It is with infinite difficulty I have been enabled to collect these 
biographical anecdotes of the great man under consideration. The 
facts respecting him were so scattered and vague, and divers of them so 
questionable in point of authenticity, that I have had to give up the 
search after many, and decline the admission of still more, which 
would have tended to heighten the coloring of his portrait. 

I have been the more anxious to delineate fully the person and 
habits of Wouter Van Twiller, from the consideration that he was 
not only the first, but also the best governor that ever presided 
over this ancient and respectable province; and so tranquil and 
benevolent was his reign, that I do not find throughout the whole of 
it a single instance of any offender being brought to punishment, — 
a most indubitable sign of a merciful governor, and a case unparalleled, 
excepting in the reign of the illustrious King Log, from whom, it is 
hinted, the renowned Van Twiller was a lineal descendant. 

The very outset of the career of this excellent magistrate was 
distinguished by an example of legal acumen, that gave flattering 
presage of a wise and equitable administration. The morning after 



228 AMERICAN PROSE 



he had been installed in office, and at the moment that he was making 
his breakfast from a prodigious earthen dish, filled with milk and 
Indian pudding, he was interrupted by the appearance of Wandle 
Schoonhoven, a very important old burgher of New Amsterdam, 
who complained bitterly of one Barent Bleecker, inasmuch as he 
refused to come to a settlement of accounts, seeing that there was a 
heavy balance in favor of the said Wandle. Governor Van Twiller, 
as I have already observed, was a man of few words; he was like- 
wise a mortal enemy to multiplying writings — or being disturbed 
at his breakfast. Having listened attentively to the statement 
of Wandle Schoonhoven, giving an occasional grunt, as he shovelled 
a spoonful of Indian pudding into his mouth, — either as a sign that 
he relished the dish, or comprehended the story, — he called unto 
him his constable, and pulling out of his breeches-pocket a huge 
jack-knife, dispatched it after the defendant as a summons, accom- 
panied by his tobacco-box as a warrant. 

This summary process was as effectual in those simple days as 
was the seal-ring of the great Haroun Alraschid among the true 
believers. The two parties being confronted before him, each pro- 
duced a book of accounts, written in a language and character that 
would have puzzled any but a High-Dutch commentator, or a learned 
decipherer of Egyptian obelisks. The sage Wouter took them one 
after the other, and having poised them in his hands, and attentively 
counted over the number of leaves, fell straightway into a very great 
doubt, and smoked for half an hour without saying a word; at 
length, laying his finger beside his nose, and shutting his eyes for a 
moment, with the air of a man who has just caught a subtle idea by 
the tail, he slowly took his pipe from his mouth, puffed forth a column 
of tobacco-smoke, and with marvellous gravity and solemnity pro- 
nounced, that, having carefully counted over the leaves and weighed 
the books, it was found, that one was just as thick and as heavy as 
the other: therefore, it was the final opinion of the court that the 
accounts were equally balanced: therefore, Wandle should give Bar- 
ent a receipt, and Barent should give Wandle a receipt, and the 
constable should pay the costs. 

This decision, being straightway made known, diffused general 
joy throughout New Amsterdam, for the people immediately per- 
ceived that they had a very wise and equitable magistrate to rule 



WASHINGTON IRVING 229 

over them. But its happiest effect was, that not another lawsuit 
took place throughout the whole of his administration; and the 
office of constable fell into such decay, that there was not one of those 
losel scouts known in the province for many years. I am the more 
particular in dwelling on this transaction, not only because I deem 
it one of the most sage and righteous judgments on record, and well 
worthy the attention of modern magistrates, but because it was a 
miraculous event in the history of the renowned Wouter, — being 
the only time he was ever known to come to a decision in the whole 
course of his life. 

FROM 

THE SKETCH BOOK 

RIP VAN WINKLE 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the 
Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great 
Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swell- 
ing up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. 
Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour 
of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of 
these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far 
and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and 
settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold 
outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest 
of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors 
about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will 
glow and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have 
descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs 
gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt 
away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village, 
of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colo- 
nists in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the 
government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace!) 
and there were some of the houses of the original settlers standing 
within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Hol- 
land, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with 
weather-cocks. 



230 AMERICAN PROSE 



In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to 
tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), 
there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province 
of Great Britain, a simple good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip 
Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured 
so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant and accom- 
panied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, 
but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed 
that he was a simple good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind 
neighbor, and an obedient hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the 
latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which 
gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most apt 
to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the dis- 
cipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered 
pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation; and 
a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching 
the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, 
therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if 
so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good 
wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part 
in all family squabbles; and never failed, whenever they talked 
those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame 
on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would 
shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, 
made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and 
told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever 
he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of 
them, hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a 
thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at 
him throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aversion 
to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of 
assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as 
long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, 
even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He 
would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, 
trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to 



WASHINGTON IRVING 231 

shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist 
a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all 
country frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone-fences; 
the women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, 
and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would 
not do for them. In a word Rip was ready to attend to any body's 
business but his own; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his 
farm in order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was 
the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; every 
thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in spite of him. 
His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either 
go astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to grow 
quicker in his fields than any where else; the rain always made a 
point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do; so that 
though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his manage- 
ment, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch 
of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in 
the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged 
to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, 
promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He 
was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped 
in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to 
hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of 
foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white 
bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, 
and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left 
to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; 
but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, 
his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morn- 
ing, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and every 
thing he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household 
eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the 
kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He 
shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said 
nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his 



232 



AMERICAN PROSE 



wife; so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside 
of the house — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked 
husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much 
hen-pecked as his master; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as 
companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, 
as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all 
points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an 
animal as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can withstand 
the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The 
moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the 
ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows 
air, .casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at 
the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door 
with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of 
matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a 
sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with con- 
stant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven 
from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, 
philosophers, and other idle personages of the village; which held 
its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund 
portrait of His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in 
the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over 
village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But 
it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the 
profound discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an 
old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveler. How 
solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick 
Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was 
not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary; 
and how" sagely they would deliberate upon public events some 
months after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas 
Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the 
door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving 
sufficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree; 
so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accu- 



WASHINGTON IRVING 233 

rately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak, but 
smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every 
great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how 
to gather his opinions. When any thing that was read or related 
displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and 
to send forth short, frequent and angry puffs; but when pleased, he 
would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light 
and placid clouds; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, 
and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod 
his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this strong-hold the unlucky Rip was at length routed 
by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tran- 
quility of the assemblage and call the members all to naught; nor 
was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from 
the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright 
with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only 
alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his 
wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here 
he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the 
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a 
fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy 
mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst 
I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!" Wolf would 
wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel 
pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had 
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill 
mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, 
and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his 
gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, 
on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the 
brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could 
overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He 
saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on 
its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, 
or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy 
bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. 



234 AMERICAN PROSE 



On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, 
wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the 
impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the 
setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening 
was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw their long 
blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long 
before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when 
he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance, 
hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He looked 
round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight 
across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived 
him, and turned again to descend when he heard the same 
cry ring through the still evening air: "Rip Van Winkle! Rip 
Van Winkle!" — at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and 
giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully 
down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing 
over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a 
strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the 
weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see 
any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place; but sup- 
posing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, 
he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity 
of the stranger's appearance. He was a short square-built old fellow, 
with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the 
antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist — 
several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated 
with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He 
bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and- made 
signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though 
rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied 
with his usual alacrity; and mutually relieving each other, they 
clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain 
torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long 
rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep 
ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their 
rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant but supposing it to 



WASHINGTON IRVING 235 

be the muttering of one of those transient thunder-showers which 
often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through 
the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, sur- 
rounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which 
impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses 
of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the whole 
time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though 
the former marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying a 
keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something strange 
and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired awe and 
checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented 
themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd- 
looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a 
quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, 
with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous 
breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, 
too, were peculiar: one had a large head, broad face, and small 
piggish eyes: the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, 
and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little 
red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. 
There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout 
old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced 
doublet, broad belt and hanger, high crowned hat and feather, red 
stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole 
group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the 
parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had 
been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these 
folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the 
gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the 
most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing 
interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, 
whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling 
peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly 
desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed statue- 
like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that 



236 AMERICAN PROSE 



his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His 
companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, 
and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed 
with fear and trembling; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, 
and then returned to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ven- 
tured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which 
he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was 
naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. 
One taste provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the 
flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes 
swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a 
deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had 
first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a 
bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering 
among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting 
the pure mountain breeze. "Surely," thought Rip, "I have not 
slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell 
asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor — the mountain ravine 
— the wild retreat among the rocks — the wobegone party at nine-pins 
— the flagon — "Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip — 
"what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ?" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiled 
fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel in- 
crusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He 
now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick 
upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his 
gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away 
after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted 
his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, 
but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, 
and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. 
As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in 
his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," 
thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the 
rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." 



WASHINGTON IRVING 237 

With some difficulty he got down into the glen: he found the gully 
up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; 
but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down 
it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling 
murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working 
his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch- 
hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines 
that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind 
of network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through 
the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening remained. 
The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, over which the torrent 
came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep 
basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, 
poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after 
his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, 
sporting high in air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice; 
and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at 
the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? the morning 
was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. 
He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; 
but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his 
head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble 
and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of people, but 
none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had 
thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. 
Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was 
accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, 
and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked 
their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, 
involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found 
his beard had grown a foot long! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange 
children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray 
beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old 
acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was 
altered; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of 



238 AMERICAN PROSE 



houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his 
familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the 
doors — strange faces at the windows — every thing was strange. 
His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he 
and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his 
native village, which he had left but the day before. There stood the 
Kaatskill mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there 
was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been — Rip was 
sorely perplexed — "That flagon last night," thought he, "has 
addled my poor head sadly!" 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own 
house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment 
to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house 
gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the 
doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was 
skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarled, 
showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed — 
"My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten me!" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle 
had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and appar- 
ently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial 
fears — he called loudly for his wife and children — the lonely chambers 
rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village 
inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building stood 
in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken and 
mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, 
"The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great 
tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now 
was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked 
like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a 
singular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and 
incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby 
face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peace- 
ful pipe; but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat 
was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand 
instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and 
underneath was painted in large characters, General Washington. 



WASHINGTON IRVING 239 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none 
that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed 
changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, 
instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He 
looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, 
double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke 
instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling 
forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a 
lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was 
haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — elections — members 
of congress — liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — and 
other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered 
Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty 
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and children 
at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. 
They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great 
curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly 
aside, inquired "on which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant 
stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the 
arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, "Whether he was 
Federal or Democrat ?" Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend 
the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a 
sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to 
the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself 
before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his 
cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his 
very soul, demanded in an austere tone, "what brought him to the 
election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and 
whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?" — "Alas! gentle- 
men," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor quiet man, a 
native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him!" 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — "A tory! a 
tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with 
great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored 
order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded 
again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he 
was seeking ? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no 



240 AMERICAN PROSE 



harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who 
used to keep about the tavern. 

"Well — who are they ? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's 
Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, 
in a thin piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and gone 
these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church- 
yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." 

"Where's Brom Dutcher?" 

"Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some 
say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point — others say he was 
drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know — 
he never came back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

"He went off to the wars too, was a great militia general, and is 
now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his 
home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every 
answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, 
and of matters which he could not understand: war — congress — 
Stony Point; — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but 
cried out in despair, "Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?" 

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, to be sure! 
that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he 
went up the mountain: apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. 
The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his 
own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the 
midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who 
he was, and what was his name ? 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm not myself — 
I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else 
got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the 
mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's changed, 
and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!" 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, winK 
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There 



WASHINGTON IRVING 241 

was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old 
fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self- 
important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. 
At this critical moment a fresh comely woman pressed through the 
throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby 
child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, 
Rip," cried she, "hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." 
The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all 
awakened a train of recollections in his mind. "What is your name, 
my good woman ?" asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name?" 

"Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's twenty 
years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has 
been heard of since — his dog came home without him; but whether 
he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. 
I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a 
faltering voice: 

"Where's your mother?" 

"Oh, she too had died but a short time since; she broke a blood- 
vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The 
honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter 
and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he — "Young 
Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now! — Does nobody 
know poor Rip Van Winkle?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among 
the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face 
for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is 
himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor — Why, where have 
you been these twenty long years?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been 
to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard 
it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues 
in their cheeks: and the self-important man in the cocked hat, 
who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, 
screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon 



242 AMERICAN PROSE 



which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the 
assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter 
Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a 
descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the 
earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabit- 
ant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and 
traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and 
corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured 
the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the 
historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted 
by strange beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick 
Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of 
vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; 
being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and 
keep a guardian eye upon the river, and the great city called by his 
name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses 
playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he himself 
had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant 
peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned 
to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took 
him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and 
a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one 
of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son 
and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, 
he was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary 
disposition to attend to any thing else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many 
of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and 
tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising genera- 
tion, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy 
age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once 
more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the 
patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before 
the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular 
track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events 



WASHINGTON IRVING 243 

that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been 
a revolutionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke of 
old England — and that, instead of being a subject of his Majesty 
George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. 
Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires 
made but little impression on him; but there was one species of 
despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was — petticoat 
government. Happily that was at an end; he had got his neck out 
of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he 
pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. When- 
ever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged 
his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an 
expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. 
Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points 
every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his having so 
recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have 
related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but 
knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of 
it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was 
one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch 
inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even 
to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon 
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew 
are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all hen- 
pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their 
hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van 
Winkle's flagon. 

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 

A Colloquy in Westminster Abbey 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought; 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

— Drummond of Hawthornden. 



244 AMERICAN PROSE 



There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which we 
naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet 
haunt, where we may indulge our reveries and build our air castles 
undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitering about the old gray 
cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering 
thought which one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection; 
when suddenly an interruption of madcap boys from Westminster 
School, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic stillness of the 
place, making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo 
with their merriment. I sought to take refuge from their noise 
by penetrating still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and applied 
to one of the vergers for admission to the library. He conducted 
me through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of former ages, 
which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to the chapter-house 
and the chamber in which Doomsday book is deposited. Just 
within the passage is a small door on the left. To this the verger 
applied a key; it was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, 
as if seldom used. We now ascended a dark narrow staircase, and, 
passing through a second door, entered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by 
massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a row 
of gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, and which 
apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient 
picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung 
over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the 
books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally 
of old polemical writers, and were much more worn by time than use. 
In the centre of the library was a solitary table with two or three 
books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long 
disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and profound medi- 
tation. It was buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey, 
and shut up from the tumult of the world. I could only hear now 
and then the shouts of the. school-boys faintly swelling from the 
cloisters, and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly 
along the roofs of the -abbey. By degrees the shouts of merri- 
ment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away; the bell 
ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky 
hall. 



WASHINGTON IRVING 245 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in 
parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in 
a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, I was be- 
guiled by the solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, 
into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old volumes 
in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, and appar- 
ently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider the 
library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, 
are piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty 
oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust aside 
with such indifference, cost some aching head! how many weary 
days! how many sleepless nights! How have their authors buried 
themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves 
up from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of nature; 
and devoted themselves to painful research and intense reflection! 
And all for what ? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf — to have the title 
of their works read now and then in a future age, by some drowsy 
churchman or casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be 
lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted 
immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound; like the tone 
of that bell which has just tolled among these towers, filling the ear 
for a moment — lingering transiently in echo — and then passing away 
like a thing that was not! 

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these unprofitable 
speculations with my head resting on my hand, I was thrumming with 
the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened the* 
clasps; when, to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two or 
three yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep; then a husky 
hem; and at length began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse 
and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which some studious 
spider had woven across it; and having probably contracted a cold 
from long exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short 
time, however, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceed- 
ingly fluent conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was 
rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation, what, in the present 
day, would be deemed barbarous; but I shall endeavor, as far as I am 
able, to render it in modern parlance. 



246 AMERICAN PROSE 



It began with railings about the neglect of the world — about 
merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such com- 
monplace topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that 
it had not been opened for more than two centuries. That the 
dean only looked now and then into the library, sometimes took down 
a volume or two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then re- 
turned them to their shelves. "What a plague do they mean," 
said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was somewhat chol- 
eric, "what a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand vol- 
umes of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old vergers, like so 
many beauties in a harem, merely to be looked at now and then by 
the dean? Books were written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed; 
and I would have a rule passed that the dean should pay each of us 
a visit at least once a year; or if he is not equal to the task, let 
them once in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster 
among us, that at any rate we may now and then have an airing." 

"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, "you are not aware how 
much better you are off than most books of your generation. By 
being stored away in this ancient library, you are like the treasured 
remains of those saints and monarchs, which lie enshrined in the 
adjoining chapels; while the remains of your contemporary mortals, 
left to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned to dust." 

"Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big, 
"I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an abbey. 
I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other great 
contemporary works; but here have I been clasped up for more than 
two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to these worms 
that are playing the very vengeance with my intestines, if you had 
not by chance given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words 
before I go to pieces." 

"My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been left to the circula- 
tion of which you speak, you would long ere this have been no more. 
To judge from your physiognomy, you are now well stricken in years: 
very few of your contemporaries can be at present in existence; and 
those few owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in old 
libraries; which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems, 
you might more properly and gratefully have compared to those 
infirmaries attached to religious establishments for the benefit of the 



WASHINGTON IRVING 247 

old and decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and no employment, 
they often endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You 
talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation — where do we meet 
with their works ? what do we hear of Robert Groteste, of Lincoln ? 
No one could have toiled harder than he for immortality. He is 
said to have written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it 
were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name: but, alas! the 
pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered 
in various libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed even by the 
antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, 
antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and poet ? He declined two 
bishoprics, that he might shut himself up and write for posterity; 
but posterity never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of 
Huntingdon, who, besides a learned history of England, wrote a 
treatise on the contempt of the world, which the world has revenged 
by forgetting him ? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the 
miracle of his age in classical composition? Of his three great 
heroic poems one is lost for ever, excepting a mere fragment; the 
others are known only to a few of the curious in literature; and as to 
his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. What 
is in current use of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the 
name of the tree of life? Of William of Malmsbury; — of Simeon of 
Durham; — of Benedict of Peterborough; — of John Hanvill of St. 
Albans ; — of " 

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, "how old 
do you think me ? You are talking of authors that lived long before 
my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a manner 
expatriated themselves, and deserved to be forgotten; but I, sir, was 
ushered into the world from the press of the renowned Wynkyn de 
Worde. I was written in my own native tongue at a time when the 
language had become fixed; and indeed I was considered a model of 
pure and elegant English." 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched in such 
intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty in 
rendering them into modern phraseology.) 

"I cry your mercy," said I, "for mistaking your age; but it 
matters little: almost all the writers of your time have likewise passed 
into forgetfulness; and De Worde's publications are mere literary 



248 AMERICAN PROSE 



rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability of language, 
too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been the 
fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even back to the 
times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in 
rhymes of mongrel Saxon. Even now many talk of Spenser's ' Well of 
pure English undefiled' as if the language ever sprang from a well 
or fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence of various 
tongues, perpetually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is 
this which has made English literature so extremely mutable, and 
the reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be 
committed to something more permanent and unchangeable than 
such a medium, even thought must share the fate of every thing else, 
and fall into decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity 
and exultation of the most popular writer. He finds the language 
in which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject 
to the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks 
back and beholds the early authors of his country, once the favorites 
of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A few short ages have 
covered them with obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by 
the quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will 
be the fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired in its 
day, and held up as a model of purity, will in the course of years grow 
antiquated and obsolete; until it shall become almost as unintelligible 
in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic 
inscriptions said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," 
added I, with some emotion, "when I contemplate a modern library, 
filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, 
I feel disposed to sit down and weep; like the good Xerxes, when he 
surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of military array, 
and reflected that in one hundred years not one of them would be in 
existence!" 

"Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see how it is; 
these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I 
suppose nothing is read now-a-days but Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, 
Sackville's stately plays, and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun 
euphuisms of the 'unparalleled John Lyly.'" 

"There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers whom 
you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you were 



WASHINGTON IRVING 249 

last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sydney's 
Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his 
admirers, and which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts, delicate 
images, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever men- 
tioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; and even Lyly, 
though his writings were once the delight of a court, and apparently 
perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A 
whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have 
likewise gone down, with all their writings and their controversies. 
Wave after wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until 
they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that some indus- 
trious diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for 
the gratification of the curious. 

"For my part," I continued, "I consider this mutability of 
language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the world 
at large, and of "authors in particular. To reason from analogy, 
we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables spring- 
ing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and then fad- 
ing into dust, to make way for their successors. Were not this the 
case, the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a blessing. 
The earth would groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its 
surface become a tangled wilderness. In like manner the works of 
genius and learning decline, and make way for subsequent pro- 
ductions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the 
writings of authors who have flourished their allotted time; other- 
wise, the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and 
the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes of 
literature. Formerly there were some restraints on this excessive 
multiplication. Works had to be transcribed by hand, which was 
a slow and laborious operation; they were written either on parch- 
ment, which was expensive, so that one work was often erased to 
make way for another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely 
perishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, pur- 
sued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. 
The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined 
almost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in 
some measure, be owing that we have not been inundated by the 
intellect of antiquity; that the fountains of thought have not been 



250 AMERICAN PROSE 



broken up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the 
inventions of paper and the press have put an end to all these re- 
straints. They have made every one a writer, and enabled every 
mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself over the whole intel- 
lectual world. The consequences are alarming. The stream of 
literature has swollen into a torrent — augmented into a river — 
expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or six hundred 
manuscripts constituted a great library; but what would you say to 
libraries such as actually exist containing three or four hundred 
thousand volumes; legions of authors at the same time busy; and the 
press going on with fearfully increasing activity, to double and 
quadruple the number? Unless some unforeseen mortality should 
break out among the progeny of the muse, now that she has become 
so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of 
language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much. It increases 
with the increase of literature, and resembles one of those salutary 
checks on population spoken of by economists. All possible en- 
couragement, therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, good 
or bad. But I fear all will be in vain; let criticism do what it may, 
writers will write, printers will print, and the world will inevitably 
be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the employment of 
a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of passable 
information, at the present day, reads scarcely any thing but reviews; 
and before long a man of erudition will be little better than a mere 
walking catalogue." 

"My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most drearily 
in my face, "excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive you are 
rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was 
making some noise just as I left the world. His reputation, however, 
was considered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads at 
him, for he was a poor half-educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, 
and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the country for 
deer-stealing. I think his name was Shakspeare. I presume he 
soon sunk into oblivion." 

"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very man that the 
literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the ordinary 
term of English literature. There rise authors now and then, who 
seem proof against the mutability of language, because they have 



WASHINGTON IRVING 251 

rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human nature. 
They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a 
stream; which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through 
the mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, 
preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the ever- 
flowing current, and hold up many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, 
worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakspeare, 
whom we behold defying the encroachments of time, retaining in 
modern use the language and literature of his day, and giving duration 
to many an indifferent author, merely from having flourished in his 
vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint 
of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, 
who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant 
that upholds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until 
at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of laughter that had well nigh 
choked him, by reason of his excessive corpulency. "Mighty well!" 
cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, "mighty well! and so you 
would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be perpetuated by 
a vagabond deer-stealer! by a man without learning; by a poet, for- 
sooth — a poet!" And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, 
however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less 
polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point. 

"Yes," resumed I, positively, "a poet; for of all writers he has 
the best chance for immortality. Others may write from the head, 
but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand 
him. He is the faithful portrayer of nature, whose features are 
always the same, and always interesting. Prose writers are volumi- 
nous and unwieldy; their pages are crowded with commonplaces, 
and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true 
poet every thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest 
thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by every 
thing that he sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches 
them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before him. His 
writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the 
phrase, of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which inclose 
within a small compass the wealth of the language — its family jewels, 



252 



AMERICAN PROSE 



which are thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The 
setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to 
be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic 
value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the 
long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dullness, filled 
with monkish legends and academical controversies! what bogs 
of theological speculations! what dreary wastes of metaphysics! 
Here and there only do we behold the heaven-illumined bards, 
elevated like beacons on their widely-separate heights, to transmit the 
pure light of poetical intelligence from age to age." 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets 
of the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn 
my head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was 
time to close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the 
quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent; the clasps were closed: 
and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have 
been to the library two or three times since, and have endeavored 
to draw it into further conversation, but in vain; and whether all 
this rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another 
of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never to this 
moment been able to discover. 



FROM 

TALES OF A TRAVELLER 

THE STROLLING MANAGER 

As I was walking one morning with Buckthorne near one of the 
principal theatres, he directed my attention to a group of those 
equivocal beings that may often be seen hovering about the stage- 
doors of theatres. They were marvellously ill-favored in their attire, 
their coats buttoned up to their chins; yet they wore their hats 
smartly on one side, and had a certain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike 
air, which is common to the subalterns of the drama. Buckthorne 
knew them well by early experience. 

"These," said he, "are the ghosts of departed kings and heroes; 
fellows who sway sceptres and truncheons; command kingdoms and 
armies; and after giving away realms and treasures over night, have 
scarce a shilling to pay for a breakfast in the morning. Yet they 



WASHINGTON IRVING 253 

have the true vagabond abhorrence of all useful and industrious 
employment; and they have their pleasures too; one of which is to 
lounge in this way in the sunshine, at the stage-door, during rehearsals, 
and make hackneyed theatrical jokes on all passers-by. Nothing 
is more traditional and legitimate than the stage. Old scenery, old 
clothes, old sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes, are handed down 
from generation to generation; and will probably continue to be so 
until time shall be no more. Every hanger-on of a theatre becomes 
a wag by inheritance, and flourishes about at tap-rooms and sixpenny 
clubs with the property jokes of the green-room." 

While amusing ourselves with reconnoitring this group, we noticed 
one in particular who appeared to be the oracle. He was a weather- 
beaten veteran, a little bronzed by time and beer, who had no doubt 
grown gray in the parts of robbers, cardinals, Roman senators, and 
walking noblemen. 

"There is something in the set of that hat, and the turn of that 
physiognomy, extremely familiar to me," said Buckthorne. He 
looked a little closer, — "I cannot be mistaken, that must be my old 
brother of the truncheon, Flimsey, the tragic hero of the Strolling 
Company." 

It was he in fact. The poor fellow showed evident signs that 
times went hard with him, he was so finely and shabbily dressed. 
His coat was somewhat threadbare, and of the Lord Townly cut; 
single breasted, and scarcely capable of meeting in front of his body, 
which, from long intimacy, had acquired the symmetry and robustness 
of a beer-barrel. He wore a pair of dingy- white stockinet pantaloons, 
which had much ado to reach his waistcoat, a great quantity of dirty 
cravat; and a pair of old russet-colored tragedy boots. 

When his companions had dispersed, Buckthorne drew him 
aside, and made himself known to him. The tragic veteran could 
scarcely recognize him, or believe that he was really his quondam 
associate, "little gentleman Jack." Buckthorne invited him to a 
neighboring coffee-house to talk over old times; and in the course of 
a little while we were put in possession of his history in brief. 

He had continued to act the heroes in the strolling company for 
some time after Buckthorne had left it or rather had been driven from 
it so abruptly. At length the manager died, and the troop was thrown 
into confusion. Every one aspired to the crown, every one was for 



254 AMERICAN PROSE 



taking the lead; and the manager's widow, although a tragedy 
queen, and a brimstone to boot, pronounced it utterly impossible for a 
woman to keep any control over such a set of tempestuous rascallions. 

"Upon this hint, I spoke," said Flimsey. I stepped forward, 
and offered my services in the most effectual way. They were 
accepted. In a week's time I married the widow, and succeeded 
to the throne. "The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth 
the marriage table," as Hamlet says. But the ghost of my predeces- 
sor never haunted me; and I inherited crowns, sceptres, bowls, 
daggers, and all the stage trappings and trumpery, not omitting the 
widow, without the least molestation. 

I now led a nourishing life of it; for our company was pretty 
strong and attractive, and as my wife and I took the heavy parts of 
tragedy, it was a great saving to the treasury. We carried off the 
palm from all the rival shows at country fairs; and I assure you we 
have even drawn full houses, and been applauded by the critics at 
Bartlemy Fair itself, though we had Astley's troop, the Irish giant, 
and "the death of Nelson" in wax work, to contend against. 

I soon began to experience, however, the cares of command. I 
discovered that there were cabals breaking out in the company, headed 
by the clown, who you may recollect was a terribly peevish, fractious 
fellow, and always in ill-humor. I had a great mind to turn him off 
at once, but I could not do without him, for there was not a droller 
scoundrel on the stage. His very shape was comic, for he had but to 
turn his back upon the audience, and all the ladies were ready to die 
with laughing. He felt his importance, and took advantage of it. 
He would keep the audience in a continual roar, and then come 
behind the scenes, and fret and fume, and play the very devil. I 
excused a great deal in him, however, knowing that comic actors are 
a little prone to this infirmity of temper. 

I had another trouble of a nearer and dearer nature to struggle 
with, which was the affection of my wife. As ill luck would have 
it, she took it into her head to be very fond of me, and became 
intolerably jealous. I could not keep a pretty girl in the company, 
and hardly dared embrace an ugly one, even when my part required it. 
I have known her to reduce a fine lady to tatters, "to very rags," as 
Hamlet says, in an instant, and destroy one of the very best dresses 
in the wardrobe, merely because she saw me kiss her at the side 



WASHINGTON IRVING 255 

scenes; though I give you my honor it was done merely by way of 
rehearsal. 

This was doubly annoying; because I have a natural liking to 
pretty faces, and wish to have them about me; and because they are 
indispensable to the success of a company at a fair, where one has to 
vie with so many rival theatres. But when once a jealous wife gets a 
freak in her head, there's no use in talking of interest or anything else. 
Egad, sir, I have more than once trembled when, during a fit of her 
tantrums, she was playing high tragedy, and flourishing her tin dagger 
on the stage, lest she should give way to her humor, and stab some 
fancied rival in good earnest. 

I went on better, however, than could be expected, considering 
the weakness of my flesh, and the violence of my rib. I had not a 
much worse time of it than old Jupiter, whose spouse was continually 
ferreting out some new intrigue, and making the heavens almost too 
hot to hold him. 

At length, as luck would have it, we were performing at a country 
fair, when I understood the theatre of a neighboring town to be 
vacant. I had always been desirous to be enrolled in a settled com- 
pany, and the height of my desire was to get on a par with a brother- 
in-law, who was manager of a regular theatre, and who had looked 
down upon me. Here was an opportunity not to be neglected. I 
concluded an agreement with the proprietors, and in a few days 
opened the theatre with great eclat. 

Behold me now at the summit of my ambition, "the high top- 
gallant of my joy," as Romeo says. No longer a chieftain of a 
wandering tribe, but a monarch of a legitimate throne, and entitled to 
call even the great potentates of Covent Garden and Drury Lane 
cousins. You, no doubt, think my happiness complete. Alas, sir! 
I was one of the most uncomfortable dogs living. No one knows, who 
has not tried, the miseries of a manager; but above all of a country 
manager. No one can conceive the contentions and quarrels within 
doors, the oppressions and vexations from without. I was pestered 
with the bloods and loungers of a country town, who infested my 
green-room, and played the mischief among my actresses. But there 
was no shaking them off. It would have been ruin to affront them; 
for though troublesome friends, they would have been dangerous 
enemies. Then there were the village critics and village amateurs, 



256 AMERICAN PROSE 



who were continually tormenting me with advice, and getting into a 
passion if I would not take it; especially the village doctor and the 
village attorney, who had both been to London occasionally, and 
knew what acting should be. 

I had also to manage as arrant a crew of scapegraces as ever 
were collected together within the walls of a theatre. I had been 
obliged to combine my original troop with some of the former troop 
of the theatre, who were favorites with the public. Here was a 
mixture that produced perpetual ferment. They were all the time 
either fighting or frolicking with each other, and I scarcely know which 
mood was least troublesome. If they quarrelled, everything went 
wrong; and if they were friends, they were continually playing off 
some prank upon each other, or upon me; for I had unhappily ac- 
quired among them the character of an easy, good-natured fellow, — 
the worst character that a manager can possess. 

Their waggery at times drove me almost crazy; for there is 
nothing so vexatious as the hackneyed tricks and hoaxes and pleas- 
antries of a veteran band of theatrical vagabonds. I relished them 
well enough, it is true, while I was merely one of the company, but 
as a manager I found them detestable. They were incessantly bring- 
ing some disgrace upon the theatre by their tavern frolics and their 
pranks about the country town. All my lectures about the impor- 
tance of keeping up the dignity of the profession and the respectability 
of the company were in vain. The villains could not sympathize 
with the delicate feelings of a man in station. They even trifled 
with the seriousness of stage business. I have had the whole piece 
interrupted, and a crowded audience of at least twenty-five pounds 
kept waiting, because the actors had hid away the breeches of Rosa- 
lind; and have known Hamlet to stalk solemnly on to deliver his 
soliloquy, with a dish-clout pinned to his skirts. Such are the bale- 
ful consequences of a manager's getting a character for good-nature. 

I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the great actors who came down 
starring, as it is called, from London. Of all baneful influences, keep 
me from that of a London star. A first-rate actress going the rounds 
of the country theatres is as bad as a blazing comet whisking about 
the heavens, and shaking fire and plagues and discords from its tail. 

The moment one of these "heavenly bodies" appeared in my 
horizon, I was sure to be in hot water. My theatre was overrun by 



WASHINGTON IRVING 257 

provincial dandies, copper-washed counterfeits of Bond Street 
loungers, who are always proud to be in the train of an actress from 
town, and anxious to be thought on exceeding good terms with her. 
It was really a relief to me when some random young nobleman 
would come in pursuit of the bait, and awe all this small fry at a 
distance. I have always felt myself more at ease with a nobleman 
than with the dandy of a country town. 

And then the injuries I suffered in my personal dignity and my 
managerial authority from the visits of these great London actors! 
'Sblood, sir, I was no longer master of myself on my throne. I was 
hectored and lectured in my own green-room, and made an absolute 
nincompoop on my own stage. There is no tyrant so absolute and 
capricious as a London star at a country theatre. I dreaded the sight 
of all of them, and yet if I did not engage them, I was sure of having 
the public clamorous against me. They drew full houses, and 
appeared to be making my fortune; but they swallowed up all the 
profits by their insatiable demands. They were absolute tape- 
worms to my little theatre; the more it took in the poorer it grew. 
They were sure to leave me with an exhausted public, empty benches, 
and a score or two of affronts to settle among the townsfolk, in conse- 
quence of misunderstandings about the taking of places. 

But the worst thing I had to undergo in my managerial career 
was patronage. Oh, sir! of all things deliver me from the patronage 
of the great people of a country town. It was my ruin. You must 
know that this town, though small, was filled with feuds, and parties, 
and great folks; being a busy little trading and manufacturing town. 
The mischief was that their greatness was of a kind not to be settled 
by reference to the court calendar, or college of heraldry; it was there- 
fore the most quarrelsome kind of greatness in existence. You smile, 
sir, but let me tell you there are no feuds more furious than the 
frontier feuds which take place in these "debatable lands "of gentility. 
The most violent dispute that I ever knew in high life was one which 
occurred at a country town, on a question of precedence between the 
ladies of a manufacturer of pins and a manufacturer of needles. 

At the town where I was situated there were perpetual alterca- 
tions of the kind. The head manufacturer's lady, for instance, was 
at daggers-drawings with the head shopkeeper's, and both were too 
rich and had too many friends to be treated lightly. The doctor's 



258 AMERICAN PROSE 



and lawyer's ladies held their heads still higher; but they in turn 
were kept in check by the wife of a country banker, who kept her 
own carriage; while a masculine widow of cracked character and 
second-handed fashion, who lived in a large house and claimed to be in 
some way related to nobility, looked down upon them all. To be 
sure, her manners were not over-elegant, nor her fortune over-large; 
but then, sir, her blood — oh, her blood carried it all hollow; there 
was no withstanding a woman with such blood in her veins. 

After all, her claims to high connection were questioned, and 
she had frequent battles for precedence at balls and assemblies with 
some of the sturdy dames of the neighborhood, who stood upon their 
wealth and their virtue; but then she had two dashing daughters, 
who dressed as fine as dragoons, and had as high blood as their 
mother, and seconded her in everything; so they carried their point 
with high heads, and everybody hated, abused, and stood in awe of 
the Fantadlins. 

Such was the state of the fashionable world in this self-important 
little town. Unluckily, I was not as well acquainted with its politics 
as I should have been. I had found myself a stranger and in great 
perplexities during my first season; I determined, therefore, to put 
myself under the patronage of some powerful name, and thus to take 
the field with the prejudices of the public in my favor. I cast around 
my thoughts for that purpose, and in an evil hour they fell upon 
Mrs. Fantadlin. No one seemed to me to have a more absolute 
sway in the world of fashion. I had always noticed that her party 
slammed the box-door the loudest at the theatre; and had most 
beaux attending on them, and talked and laughed loudest during the 
performance; and then the Miss Fantadlins wore always more 
feathers and flowers than any other ladies; and used quizzing-glasses 
incessantly. The first evening of my theatre's reopening, therefore, 
was announced in staring capitals on the playbills, as under the 
patronage of " The Honorable Mrs. Fantadlin." 

Sir, the whole community flew to arms! The banker's wife 
felt her dignity grievously insulted at not having the preference; 
her husband being high bailiff and the richest man in the place. She 
immediately issued invitations for a large party, for the night of the 
performance, and asked many a lady to it whom she never had noticed 
before. Presume to patronize the theatre! insufferable! And 



WASHINGTON IRVING 259 

then for me to dare to term her "The Honorable!" What claim had 
she to the title forsooth ? The fashionable world had long groaned 
under the tyranny of the Fantadlins, and were glaoMo make a com- 
mon cause against this new instance of assumption. Those, too, 
who had never before been noticed by the banker's lady were ready 
to enlist in any quarrel for the honor of her acquaintance. All 
minor feuds were forgotten. The doctor's lady and the lawyer's 
lady met together; and the manufacturer's lady and the shopkeeper's 
lady kissed each other; and all, headed by the banker's lady, voted 
the theatre a bore, and determined to encourage nothing but the 
Indian Jugglers and Mr. Walker's Eidouranion. 

Alas for poor Pillgarlick! I knew little the mischief that was 
brewing against me. My box-book remained blank; the evening 
arrived; but no audience. The music struck up to a tolerable pit 
and gallery, but no fashionables! I peeped anxiously from behind the 
curtain, but the time passed away; the play was retarded until pit 
and gallery became furious; and I had to raise the curtain, and play 
my greatest part in tragedy to "a beggarly account of empty boxes." 

It is true the Fantadlins came late, as was their custom, and 
entered like a tempest, with a flutter of feathers and red shawls; but 
they were evidently disconcerted at finding they had no one to 
admire and envy them, and were enraged at this glaring defection 
of their fashionable followers. All the beau-monde were engaged 
at the banker's lady's rout. They remained for some time in solitary 
and uncomfortable state; and though they had the theatre almost to 
themselves, yet, for the first time, they talked in whispers. They 
left the house at the end of the first piece, and I never saw them 
afterwards. 

Such was the rock on which I split. I never got over the patron- 
age of the Fantadlin family. My house was deserted; my actors 
grew discontented because they were ill paid; my door became a 
hammering place for every bailiff in the country; and my wife became 
more and more shrewish and tormenting the more I wanted comfort. 

I tried for a time the usual consolation of a harassed and hen- 
pecked man; I took to the bottle, and tried to tipple away my cares, 
but in vain. I don't mean to decry the bottle; it is no doubt an 
excellent remedy in many cases, but it did not answer in mine. 
It cracked my voice, coppered my nose, but neither improved my 



2 6o AMERICAN PROSE 



wife nor my affairs. My establishment became a scene of confusion 
and peculation. I was considered a ruined man, and of course fair 
game for every one to pluck at, as every one plunders a sinking ship. 
Day after day some of the troop deserted, and, like deserting soldiers, 
carried off their arms and accoutrements with them. In this manner 
my wardrobe took legs and walked away, my finery strolled all over 
the country, my swords and daggers glittered in every barn, until, 
at last, my tailor made "one fell swoop," and carried off three dress- 
coats, half a dozen doublets, and nineteen pair of flesh-colored 
pantaloons. 

This was the "be all and the end all" of my fortune. I no longer 
hesitated what to do. Egad, thought I, since stealing is the order 
of the day, I'll steal too. So I secretly gathered together the jewels 
of my wardrobe, packed up a hero's dress in a handkerchief, slung it 
on the end of a tragedy sword, and quietly stole off at dead of night, 
"the bell then beating one," leaving my queen and kingdom to the 
mercy of my rebellious subjects, and my merciless foes the bum- 
bailiffs. 

Such, sir, was the "end of all my greatness." I was heartily 
cured of all passion for governing, and returned once more into the 
ranks. I had for some time the usual run of an actor's life. I 
played in various country theatres, at fairs, and in barns; sometimes 
hard pushed, sometimes flush, until, on one occasion, I came within 
an ace of making my fortune, and becoming one of the wonders of 
the age. 

I was playing the part of Richard the Third in a country barn, 
and in my best style; for, to tell the truth, I was a little in liquor, and 
the critics of the company always observed that I played with most 
effect when I had a glass too much. There was a thunder of applause 
when I came to that part where Richard cries for "a horse! a horse!" 
My cracked voice had always a wonderful effect here; it was like two 
voices run into one; you would have thought two men had been calling 
for a horse, or that Richard had called for two horses. And when I 
flung the taunt at Richmond, "Richard is hoarse with calling thee to 
arms," I thought the barn would have come down about my ears with 
the raptures of the audience. 

The very next morning a person waited upon me at my lodgings. 
I saw at once he was a gentleman by his dress; for he had a large 



WASHINGTON IRVING 261 

brooch in his bosom, thick rings on his fingers, and used a quizzing- 
glass. And a gentleman he proved to be; for I soon ascertained that 
he was a kept author, or kind of literary tailor to one of the great 
London theatres; one who worked under the manager's directions, 
and cut up and cut down plays, and patched and pieced, and new 
faced, and turned them inside out; in short, he was one of the readiest 
and greatest writers of the day. 

He was now on a foraging excursion in quest of something that 
might be got up for a prodigy. The theatre, it seems, was in desper- 
ate condition — nothing but a miracle could save it. He had seen 
me act Richard the night before, and had pitched upon me for that 
miracle. I had a remarkable bluster in my style and swagger in 
my gait. I certainly differed from all other heroes of the barn: so 
the thought struck the agent to bring me out as a theatrical wonder, 
as the restorer of natural and legitimate acting, as the only one who 
could understand and act Shakspeare rightly. 

When he opened his plan I shrunk from it with becoming modesty, 
for well as I thought of myself, I doubted my competency to such an 
undertaking. 

I hinted at my imperfect knowledge of Shakspeare, having played 
his characters only after mutilated copies, interlarded with a great 
deal of my own talk by way of helping memory or heightening the 
effect. 

"So much the better!" cried the gentleman with rings on his 
fingers; "so much the better! New readings, sir! — new readings! 
Don't study a line — let us have Shakspeare after your own fashion." 

"But then my voice was cracked; it could not fill a London 
theatre." 

"So much the better! so much the better! The public is tired 
of intonation — the ore rotundo has had its day. No, sir, your cracked 
voice is the very thing; — spit and splutter, and snap and snarl, and 
'play the very dog' about the stage, and you'll be the making of us." 

"But then," — I could not help blushing to the end of my very 
nose as I said it, but I was determined to be candid, — "but then," 
added I, "there is one awkward circumstance: I have an unlucky 
habit — my misfortunes, and the exposures to which one is subjected 
in country barns, have obliged me now and then to — to — take a 
drop of something comfortable — and so — and so" 



262 AMERICAN PROSE 



"What! you drink?" cried the agent, eagerly. 

I bowed my head in blushing acknowledgment. 

"So much the better! so much the better! The irregularities 
of genius! A sober fellow is commonplace. The public like an 
actor that drinks. Give me your hand, sir. You're the very man 
to make a dash with." 

I still hung back with lingering diffidence, declaring myself 
unworthy of such praise. 

" 'Sblood, man," cried he, "no praise at all. You don't imagine / 
think you a wonder; I only want the public to think so. Nothing is 
so easy as to gull the public, if you only set up a prodigy. Common 
talent anybody can measure by common rule; but a prodigy sets all 
rule and measurement at defiance." 

These words opened my eyes in an instant: we now came to a 
proper understanding, less flattering, it is true, to my vanity, but 
much more satisfactory to my judgment. 

It was agreed that I should make my appearance before a London 
audience, as a dramatic sun just bursting from behind the clouds: 
one that was to banish all the lesser lights and false fires of the stage. 
Every precaution was to be taken to possess the public mind at every 
avenue. The pit was to be packed with sturdy clappers; the 
newspapers secured by vehement puffers; every theatrical resort to 
be haunted by hireling talkers. In a word, every engine of theatrical 
humbug was to be put in action. Wherever I differed from former 
actors, it was to be maintained that I was right and they were 
wrong. If I ranted, it was to be pure passion; if I were vulgar, 
it was to be pronounced a familiar touch of nature; if I made any 
queer blunder, it was to be a new reading. If my voice cracked, or I 
got out in my part, I was only to bounce, and grin, and snarl at the 
audience, and make any horrible grimace that came into my head, 
and my admirers were to call it "a great point," and to fall back 
and shout and yell with rapture. 

"In short," said the gentleman with the quizzing-glass, "strike 
out boldly and bravely: no matter how or what you do, so that it be 
but odd and strange. If you do but escape pelting the first night, 
your fortune and the fortune of the theatre is made." 

I set off for London, therefore, in company with the kept author, 
full of new plans and new hopes. I was to be the restorer of Shak- 



WASHINGTON IRVING 263 

speare and Nature, and the legitimate drama; my very swagger was 
to be heroic, and my cracked voice the standard of elocution. Alas, 
sir, my usual luck attended me: before I arrived at the metropolis, a 
rival wonder had appeared; a woman who could dance the slack rope, 
and run up a cord from the stage to the gallery with fireworks all 
round her. She was seized on by the manager with avidity. She 
was the saving of the great national theatre for the season. Nothing 
was talked of but Madame Saqui's fireworks and flesh-colored 
pantaloons; and Nature, Shakspeare, the legitimate drama, and 
poor Pillgarlick, were completely left in the lurch. 

When Madame Saqui's performance grew stale, other wonders 
succeeded: horses, and harlequinades, and mummery of all kinds; 
until another dramatic prodigy was brought forward to play the 
very game for which I had been intended. I called upon the kept 
author for an explanation, but he was deeply engaged in writing a 
melodrama or a pantomime, and was extremely testy on being 
interrupted in his studies. However, as the theatre was in some 
measure pledged to provide for me, the manager acted, according to 
the usual phrase, "like a man of honor," and I received an appoint- 
ment in the corps. It had been a turn of a die whether I should be 
Alexander the Great or Alexander the coppersmith — the latter carried 
it. I could not be put at the head of the drama, so I was put at the 
tail of it. In other words, I was enrolled among the number of what 
are called useful men; those who enact soldiers, senators, and Banquo's 
shadowy line. I was perfectly satisfied with my lot; for I have 
always been a bit of a philosopher. If my situation was not splendid, 
it at least was secure; and in fact I have seen half a dozen prodigies 
appear, dazzle, burst like bubbles, and pass away, and yet here I am, 
snug, unenvied, and unmolested, at the foot of the profession. 

You may smile; but let me tell you, we "useful men" are the 
only comfortable actors on the stage. We are safe from hisses, and 
below the hope of applause. We fear not the success of rivals, nor 
dread the critic's pen. So long as we get the words of our parts, and 
they are not often many, it is all we care for. We have our own 
merriment, our own friends, and our own admirers, — for every actor 
has his friends and admirers, from the highest to the lowest. The 
first-rate actor dines with the noble amateur, and entertains a fash- 
ionable table with scraps and songs and theatrical slip-slop. The 



264 AMERICAN PROSE 



second-rate actors have their second-rate friends and admirers, with 
whom they likewise spout tragedy and talk slip-slop; — and so down 
even to us; who have our friends and admirers among spruce clerks 
and aspiring apprentices — who treat us to a dinner now and then, 
and enjoy at tenth hand the same scraps and songs and slip-slop 
that have been served up by our more fortunate brethren at the 
tables of the great. 

I now, for the first time in my theatrical life, experience what 
true pleasure is. I have known enough of notoriety to pity the poor 
devils who are called favorites of the public. I would rather be a 
kitten in the arms of a spoiled child, to be one moment petted and 
pampered and the next moment thumped over the head with the 
spoon. I smile to see our leading actors fretting themselves with 
envy and jealousy about a trumpery renown, questionable in its 
quality, and uncertain in its duration. I laugh, too, though of course 
in my sleeve, at the bustle and importance, and trouble and per- 
plexities of our manager — who is harassing himself to death in the 
hopeless effort to please everybody. 

I have found among my fellow-subalterns two or three quondam 
managers, who like myself have wielded the sceptres of country 
theatres, and we have many a sly joke together at the expense of the 
manager and the public. Sometimes, too, we meet, like deposed 
and exiled kings, talk over the events of our respective reigns, moralize 
over a tankard of ale, and laugh at the humbug of the great and little 
world; which, I take it, is the essence of practical philosophy. 

FROM 

THE ALHAMBRA 

LEGEND OF THE ARABIAN ASTROLOGER 

In old times, many hundred years ago, there was a Moorish 
king named Aben Habuz, who reigned over the kingdom of Granada. 
He was a retired conqueror, that is to say, one who, having in his 
more youthful days led a life of constant foray and depredation, 
now that he was grown feeble and superannuated, "languished for 
repose," and desired nothing more than to live at peace with all the 
world, to husband his laurels, and to enjoy in quiet the possessions he 
had wrested from his neighbors. 



WASHINGTON IRVING 265 

It so happened, however, that this most reasonable and pacific 
old monarch had young rivals to deal with; princes full of his early- 
passion for fame and fighting, and who were disposed to call him to 
account for the scores he had run up with their fathers. Certain 
distant districts of his own territories, also, which during the days 
of his vigor he had treated with a high hand, were prone, now that 
he languished for repose, to rise in rebellion and threaten to invest 
him in his capital. Thus he had foes on every side; and as Granada 
is surrounded by wild and craggy mountains, which hide the approach 
of an enemy, the unfortunate Aben Habuz was kept in a constant 
state of vigilance and alarm, not knowing in what quarter hostilities 
might break out. 

It was in vain that he built watch-towers on the mountains 
and stationed guards at every pass with orders to make fires by 
night and smoke by day, on the approach of an enemy. His alert 
foes, baffling every precaution, would break out of some unthought-of 
defile, ravage his lands beneath his very nose, and then make off 
with prisoners and booty to the mountains. Was ever peaceable 
and retired conqueror in a more uncomfortable predicament ? 

While Aben Habuz was harassed by these perplexities and moles- 
tations, an ancient Arabian physician arrived at his court. His 
gray beard descended to his girdle, and he had every mark of extreme 
age, yet he had travelled almost the whole way from Egypt on foot, 
with no other aid than a staff, marked with hieroglyphics. His 
fame had preceded him. His name was Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub; 
he was said to have lived ever since the days of Mahomet, and to be 
son of Abu Ayub, the last of the companions of the Prophet. He 
had, when a child, followed the conquering army of Amru into Egypt, 
where he had remained many years studying the dark sciences, and 
particularly magic, among the Egyptian priests. 

It was, moreover, said that he had found out the secret of pro- 
longing life, by means of which he had arrived to the great age of 
upwards of two centuries, though, as he did not discover the secret 
until well stricken in years, he could only perpetuate his gray hairs 
and wrinkles. 

This wonderful old man was honorably entertained by the king; 
who, like most superannuated monarchs, began to take physicians 
into great favor. He would have assigned him an apartment in his 



206 AMERICAN PROSE 



palace, but the astrologer preferred a cave in the side of the hill which 
rises above the city of Granada, being the same on which the Al- 
hambra has since been built. He caused the cave to be enlarged so as 
to form a spacious and lofty hall, with a circular hole at the top, 
through which, as through a well, he could see the heavens and 
behold the stars even at mid-day. The walls of this hall were 
covered with Egyptian hieroglyphics with cabalistic symbols, and with 
the figures of the stars in their signs. This hall he furnished with 
many implements, fabricated under his directions by cunning 
artificers of Granada, but the occult properties of which were known 
only to himself. 

In a little while the sage Ibrahim became the bosom counsellor 
of the king, who applied to him for advice in every emergency. 
Aben Habuz was once inveighing against the injustice of his neigh- 
bors, and bewailing the restless vigilance he had to observe to guard 
himself against their invasions; when he had finished, the astrologer 
remained silent for a moment, and then replied, "Know, O king, 
that, when I was in Egypt, I beheld a great marvel devised by a 
pagan priestess of old. On a mountain, above the city of Borsa, and 
overlooking the great valley of the Nile, was a figure of a ram, and 
above it a figure of a cock, both of molten brass, and turning upon a 
pivot. Whenever the country was threatened with invasion, the 
ram would turn in the direction of the enemy, and the cock would 
crow; upon this the inhabitants of the city knew of the danger, 
and of the quarter from which it was approaching, and could take 
timely means to guard against it." 

"God is great!" exclaimed the pacific Aben Habuz, "what a 
treasure would be such a ram to keep an eye upon these mountains 
around me; and then such a cock, to crow in time of danger! Allah 
Akbar! how securely I might sleep in my palace with such sentinels 
on the top!" 

The astrologer waited until the ecstasies of the king had subsided, 
and then proceeded. 

"After the victorious Amru (may he rest in peace!) had finished 
his conquest of Egypt, I remained among the priests of the land, study- 
ing the rites and ceremonies of their idolatrous faith, and seeking to 
make myself master of the hidden knowledge for which they are 
renowned. I was one day seated on the banks of the Nile, conversing 



WASHINGTON IRVING 267 

with an ancient priest, when he pointed to the mighty pyramids 
which rose like mountains out of the neighboring desert. 'All that 
we can teach thee,' said he, 'is nothing to the knowledge locked up 
in those mighty piles. In the centre of the central pyramid is a 
sepulchral chamber, in which is enclosed the mummy of the high- 
priest who aided in rearing that stupendous pile; and with him is 
buried a wondrous book of knowledge, containing all the secrets of 
magic and art. This book was given to Adam after his fall, and 
was handed down from generation to generation to King Solomon the 
Wise, and by its aid he built the Temple of Jerusalem. How it came 
into the possession of the builder of the pyramids is known to Him 
alone who knows all things.' 

"When I heard these words of the Egyptian priest, my heart 
burned to get possession of that book. I could command the services 
of many of the soldiers of our conquering army, and of a number of the 
native Egyptians: with these I set to work, and pierced the solid 
mass of the pyramid, until, after great toil, I came upon one of its 
interior and hidden passages. - Following this up, and threading a 
fearful labyrinth, I penetrated into the very heart of the pyramid, 
even to the sepulchral chamber, where the mummy of the high- 
priest had lain for ages. I broke through the outer cases of the 
mummy, unfolded its many wrappers and bandages, and at length 
found the precious volume on its bosom. I seized it with a trembling 
hand, and groped my way out of the pyramid, leaving the mummy in 
its dark and silent sepulchre, there to await the final day of resur- 
rection and judgment." 

"Son of Abu Ayub," exclaimed Aben Habuz, "thou hast been 
a great traveller, and seen marvellous things; but of what avail to 
me is the secret of the pyramid, and the volume of knowledge of the 
wise Solomon?" 

"This it is, king! By the study of that book I am instructed in 
all magic arts, and can command the assistance of genii to accomplish 
my plans. The mystery of the Talisman of Borsa is therefore familiar 
to me, and such a talisman can I make, nay, one of greater virtues." 

"0 wise son of Abu Ayub," cried Aben Habuz, "better were 
such a talisman than all the watch-towers on the hills, and sentinels 
upon the borders. Give me such a safeguard, and the riches of my 
treasury are at thy command." 



268 AMERICAN PROSE 



The astrologer immediately set to work to gratify the wishes of 
the monarch. He caused a great tower to be erected upon the top 
of the royal palace, which stood on the brow of the hill of the Albaycin. 
The tower was built of stones brought from Egypt, and taken, it is 
said, from one of the pyramids. In the upper part of the tower was a 
circular hall, with windows looking towards every point of the com- 
pass, and before each window was a table, on which was arranged, 
as on a chess-board, a mimic army of horse and foot, with the effigy 
of the potentate that ruled in that direction, all carved of wood. To 
each of these tables there was a small lance, no bigger than a bodkin, 
on which were engraved certain Chaldaic characters. This hall 
was kept constantly closed, by a gate of brass, with a great lock of 
steel, the key of which was in possession of the king. 

On the top of the tower was a bronze figure of a Moorish horse- 
man, fixed on a pivot, with a shield on one arm, and his lance elevated 
perpendicularly. The face of this horseman was towards the city, 
as if keeping guard over it; but if any foe were at hand, the figure 
would turn in that direction, and would level the lance as if for 
action. 

When this talisman was finished, Aben Habuz was all impatient 
to try its virtues, and longed as ardently for an invasion as he had 
ever sighed after repose. His desire was soon gratified. Tidings 
were brought, early one morning, by the sentinel appointed to watch 
the tower, that the face of the bronze horseman was turned towards 
the mountains of Elvira, and that his lance pointed directly against 
the Pass of Lope. 

"Let the drums and trumpets sound to arms, and all Granada 
be put on the alert," said Aben Habuz. 

"O king," said the astrologer, "let not your city be disquieted, 
nor your warriors called to arms; we need no aid of force to deliver 
you from your enemies. Dismiss your attendants, and let us pro- 
ceed alone to the secret hall of the tower." 

The ancient Aben Habuz mounted the staircase of the tower, 
leaning on the arm of the still more ancient Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub. 
They unlocked the brazen door and entered. The window that 
looked towards the Pass of Lope was open. "In this direction," 
said the astrologer, "lies the danger; approach, O king, and behold 
the mystery of the table." 



WASHINGTON IRVING 269 

King Aben Habuz approached the seeming chess-board, on 
which were arranged the small wooden effigies, when, to his surprise, 
he perceived that they were all in motion. The horses pranced and 
curveted, the warriors brandished their weapons, and there was a 
faint sound of drums and trumpets, and the clang of arms, and neigh- 
ing of steeds; but all no louder, nor more distinct, than the hum of 
the bee, or the summer-fly, in the drowsy ear of him who lies at 
noontide in the shade. 

"Behold, O king," said the astrologer, "a proof that thy enemies 
are even now in the field. They must be advancing through yonder 
mountains, by the Pass of Lope. Would you produce a panic and 
confusion amongst them, and cause them to retreat without loss of 
life, strike these effigies with the but-end of this magic lance; would 
you cause bloody feud and carnage, strike with the point." 

A livid streak passed across the countenance of Aben Habuz; 
he seized the lance with trembling eagerness; his gray beard wagged 
with exultation as he tottered toward the table: "Son of Abu Ayub," 
exclaimed he, in chuckling tone, "I think we will have a little 
blood!" 

So saying, he thrust the magic lance into some of the pigmy 
effigies, and belabored others with the but-end, upon which the 
former fell as dead upon the board, and the rest, turning upon each 
other, began, pell-mell, a chance-medley fight. 

It was with difficulty the astrologer could stay the hand of 
the most pacific of monarchs, and prevent him from absolutely 
exterminating his foes; at length he prevailed upon him to leave 
the tower, and to send out scouts to the mountains by the Pass 
of Lope. 

They returned with the intelligence that a Christian army had 
advanced through the heart of the Sierra, almost within sight of 
Granada, where a dissension had broken out among them; they had 
turned their weapons against each other, and after much slaughter 
had retreated over the border. 

Aben Habuz was transported with joy on thus proving the 
efficacy of the talisman. "At length," said he, "I shall lead a life 
of tranquillity, and have all my enemies in my power. wise 
son of Abu Ayub, what can I bestow on thee in reward for such a 
blessing ?" 



270 AMERICAN PROSE 



"The wants of an old man and a philosopher, king, are few 
and simple; grant me but the means of fitting up my cave as a suitable 
hermitage, and I am content." 

"How noble is the moderation of the truly wise!" exclaimed 
Aben Habuz, secretly pleased at the cheapness of the recompense. 
He summoned his treasurer, and bade him dispense whatever sums 
might be required by Ibrahim to complete and furnish his hermitage. 

The astrologer now gave orders to have various chambers hewn 
out of the solid rock, so as to form ranges of apartments connected 
with his astrological hall; these he caused to be furnished with 
luxurious ottomans and divans, and the walls to be hung with the 
richest silks of Damascus. "I am an old man," said he, "and can 
no longer rest my bones on stone couches, and these damp walls 
require covering." 

He had baths too constructed, and provided with all kinds of 
perfumes and aromatic oils: "For a bath," said he, "is necessary to 
counteract the rigidity of age, and to restore freshness and suppleness 
to the frame withered by study." 

He caused the apartments to be hung with innumerable silver 
and crystal lamps, which he filled with a fragrant oil prepared accord- 
ing to a receipt discovered by him in the tombs of Egypt. This oil 
was perpetual in its nature, and diffused a soft radiance like the 
tempered light of day. "The light of the sun," said he, "is too 
garish and violent for the eyes of an old man, and the light of the 
lamp is more congenial to the studies of a philosopher." 

The treasurer of King Aben Habuz groaned at the sums daily 
demanded to fit up this hermitage, and he carried his complaints to 
the king. The royal word, however, had been given; Aben Habuz 
shrugged his shoulders: "We must have patience," said he; "this 
old man has taken his idea of a philosophic retreat from the interior 
of the pyramids, and of the vast ruins of Egypt; but all things have 
an end, and so will the furnishing of his cavern." 

The king was in the right; the hermitage was at length complete, 
and formed a sumptuous subterranean palace. The astrologer ex- 
pressed himself perfectly content, and, shutting himself up, remained 
for three whole days buried in study. At the end of that time he 
appeared again before the treasurer. "One thing more is necessary," 
said he, "one trifling solace for the intervals of mental labor." 



WASHINGTON IRVING 271 

"0 wise Ibrahim, I am bound to furnish everything necessary 
for thy solitude; what more dost thou require ? " 

"I would fain have a few dancing- women." 

"Dancing-women!" echoed the treasurer, with surprise. 

"Dancing- women," replied the sage, gravely: "and let them be 
young and fair to look upon; for the sight of youth and beauty is 
refreshing. A few will suffice, for I am a philosopher of simple 
habits and easily satisfied." 

While the philosophic Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub passed his 
time thus sagely in his hermitage, the pacific Aben Habuz 
carried on furious campaigns in effigy in his tower. It was a 
glorious thing for an old man, like himself, of quiet habits, to 
have war made easy, and to be enabled to amuse himself in his 
chamber by brushing away whole armies like so many swarms of 
flies. 

For a time he rioted in the indulgence of his humors, and even 
taunted and insulted his neighbors, to induce them to make incursions; 
but by degrees they grew wary from repeated disasters, until no 
one ventured to invade his territories. For many months the 
bronze horseman remained on the peace establishment, with his 
lance elevated in the air; and the worthy old monarch began to 
repine at the want of his accustomed sport, and to grow peevish at 
his monotonous tranquillity. 

At length, one day, the talismanic horseman veered suddenly 
round, and lowering his lance, made a dead point towards the moun- 
tains of Guadix. Aben Habuz hastened to his tower, but the magic 
table in that direction remained quiet: not a single warrior was in 
motion. Perplexed at the circumstance, he sent forth a troop of 
horse to scour the mountains and reconnoitre. They returned after 
three days' absence. 

"We have searched every mountain pass," said they, "but 
not a helm nor spear was stirring. All that we have found in the 
course of our foray, was a Christian damsel of surpassing beauty, 
sleeping at noontide beside a fountain, whom we have brought away 
captive." 

"A damsel of surpassing beauty!" exclaimed Aben Habuz, his 
eyes gleaming with animation; "let her be conducted into my pres- 



272 AMERICAN PROSE 



The beautiful damsel was accordingly conducted into his presence. 
She was arrayed with all the luxury of ornament that had prevailed 
among the Gothic Spaniards at the time of the Arabian conquest. 
Pearls of dazzling whiteness were entwined with her raven tresses; 
and jewels sparkled on her forehead, rivalling the lustre of her eyes. 
Around her neck was a golden chain, to which was suspended a silver 
lyre, which hung by her side. 

The flashes of her dark refulgent eye were like sparks of fire on 
the withered, yet combustible, heart of Aben Habuz; the swimming 
voluptuousness of her gait made his senses reel. " Fairest of women," 
cried he, with rapture, "who and what art thou?" 

"The daughter of one of the Gothic princes, who but lately 
ruled over this land. The armies of my father have been destroyed 
as if by magic, among these mountains; he has been driven into 
exile, and his daughter is a captive. 

"Beware, O king!" whispered Ibrahim Ebn Abu Ayub, "this 
may be one of those northern sorceresses of whom we have heard, 
who assume the most seductive forms to beguile the unwary. Me- 
thinks I read witchcraft in her eye, and sorcery in every movement. 
Doubtless this is the enemy pointed out by the talisman." 

"Son of Abu Ayub," replied the king, "thou art a wise man, I 
grant, a conjurer for aught I know; but thou art little versed in the 
ways of woman. In that knowledge will I yield to no man; no, 
not to the wise Solomon himself, notwithstanding the number of his 
wives and concubines. As to this damsel, I see no harm in her; she 
is fair to look upon, and finds favor in my eyes." 

"Hearken, king!" replied the astrologer. "I have given thee 
many victories by means of my talisman, but have never shared any 
of the spoil. Give me then this stray captive, to solace me in my 
solitude with her silver lyre. If she be indeed a sorceress, I have 
counter spells that set her charms at defiance." 

"What! more women!" cried Aben Habuz. "Hast thou not 
already dancing- women enough to solace thee?" 

"Dancing- women have I, it is true, but no singing- women. I 
would fain have a little minstrelsy to refresh my mind when weary 
with the toils of study." 

"A truce with thy hermit cravings," said the king, impatiently. 
"This damsel have I marked for my own. I see much comfort 



WASHINGTON IRVING 273 

in her; even such comfort as David, the father of Solomon the Wise, 
found in the society of Abishag the Shunamite." 

Further solicitations and remonstrances of the astrologer only- 
provoked a more peremptory reply from the monarch, and they parted 
in high displeasure. The sage shut himself up in his hermitage to 
brood over his disappointment; ere he departed, however, he gave the 
king one more warning to beware of his dangerous captive. But 
where is the old man in love that will listen to counsel ? Aben Habuz 
resigned himself to the full sway of his passion. His only study was 
how to render himself amiable in the eyes of the Gothic beauty. He 
had not youth to recommend him, it is true, but then he had riches; 
and when a lover is old, he is generally generous. The Zacatin of 
Granada was ransacked for the most precious merchandise of the 
East; silks, jewels, precious gems, exquisite perfumes, all that Asia 
and Africa yielded of rich and rare, were lavished upon the princess. 
All kinds of spectacles and festivities were devised for her entertain- 
ment; minstrelsy, dancing tournaments, bull-fights; — Granada 
for a time was a scene of perpetual pageant. The Gothic prin- 
cess regarded all this splendor with the air of one accustomed to 
magnificence. She received everything as a homage due to her rank, 
or rather to her beauty; for beauty is more lofty in its exactions even 
than rank. Nay, she seemed to take a secret pleasure in exciting the 
monarch to expenses that made his treasury shrink, and then treating 
his extravagant generosity as a mere matter of course. With all his 
assiduity and munificence, also, the venerable lover could not flatter 
himself that he had made any impression on her heart. She never 
frowned on him, it is true, but then she never smiled. Whenever 
he began to plead his passion, she struck her silver lyre. There was 
a mystic charm in the sound. In an instant the monarch began to 
nod; a drowsiness stole over him, and he gradually sank into a sleep, 
from which he awoke wonderfully refreshed, but perfectly cooled for 
the time of his passion. This was very baffling to his suit; but then 
these slumbers were accompanied by agreeable dreams, which com- 
pletely inthralled the senses of the drowsy lover; so he continued to 
dream on, while all Granada scoffed at his infatuation, and groaned 
at the treasures lavished for a song. 

At length a danger burst on the head of Aben Habuz, against 
which his talisman yielded him no warning. An insurrection broke 



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out in his very capital; his palace was surrounded by an armed 
rabble, who menaced his life and the life of his Christian paramour. 
A spark of his ancient warlike spirit was awakened in the breast of 
the monarch. At the head of a handful of his guards he sallied 
forth, put the rebels to flight, and crushed the insurrection in the bud. 

When quiet was again restored, he sought the astrologer, who 
still remained shut Up in his hermitage, chewing the bitter cud of 
resentment. 

Aben Habuz approached him with a conciliatory tone. "0 
wise son of Abu Ayub," said he, "well didst thou predict dangers to 
me from this captive beauty: tell me then, thou who art so quick 
at foreseeing peril, what I should do to avert it." 

"Put from thee the infidel damsel who is the cause." 

"Sooner would I part with my kingdom," cried Aben Habuz. 

"Thou art in danger of losing both," replied the astrologer. 

"Be not harsh and angry, O most profound of philosophers; 
consider the double distress of a monarch and a lover, and devise 
some means of protecting me from the evils by which I am menaced. 
I care not for grandeur, I care not for power, I languish only for 
repose; would that I had some quiet retreat where I might take 
refuge from the world, and all its cares, and pomps, and troubles, and 
devote the remainder of my days to tranquillity and love." 

The astrologer regarded him for a moment from under his bushy 
eyebrows. 

"And what wouldst thou give, if I could provide thee such a 
retreat ?" 

"Thou shouldst name thy own reward; and whatever it might 
be, if within the scope of my power, as my soul liveth, it should be 
thine." 

"Thou hast heard, O king, of the garden of Irem, one of the 
prodigies of Arabia the happy." 

"I have heard of that garden; it is recorded in the Koran, even 
in the chapter entitled 'The Dawn of Day.' I have, moreover, 
heard marvellous things related of it by pilgrims who had been to 
Mecca; but I considered them wild fables, such as travellers are 
wont to tell who have visited remote countries." 

"Discredit not, O king, the tales of travellers," rejoined the 
astrologer, gravely, "for they contain precious rarities of knowledge 



WASHINGTON IRVING 275 

brought from the ends of the earth. As to the palace and garden 
of Irem, what is generally told of them is true; I have seen them 
with mine own eyes; — listen to my adventure, for it has a bearing 
upon the object of your request. 

"In my younger days, when a mere Arab of the desert, I tended 
my father's camels. In traversing the desert of Aden, one of them 
strayed from the rest, and was lost. I searched after it for several 
days, but in vain, until, wearied and faint, I laid myself down at 
noontide, and slept under a palm-tree by the side of a scanty well. 
When I awoke I found myself at the gate of a city. I entered, 
and beheld noble streets, and squares, and market-places; but all 
were silent and without an inhabitant. I wandered on until I came 
to a sumptuous palace, with a garden adorned with fountains and 
fish-ponds, and groves and flowers, and orchards laden with delicious 
fruit; but still no one was to be seen. Upon which, appalled at this 
loneliness, I hastened to depart; and, after issuing forth at the gate 
of the city, I turned to look upon the place, but it was no longer to 
be seen; nothing but the silent desert extended before my eyes. 

"In the neighborhood I met with an aged- dervise, learned in the 
traditions and secrets of the land, and related to him what had befallen 
me. 'This,' said he, 'is the far-famed garden of Irem, one of the 
wonders of the desert. It only appears at times to some wanderer 
like thyself, gladdening him with the sight of towers and palaces 
and garden-walls overhung with richly-laden fruit-trees, and then 
vanishes, leaving nothing but a lonely desert. And this is the 
story of it. In old times, when this country was inhabited by the 
Addites, King Sheddad, the son of Ad, the great-grandson of Noah, 
founded here a splendid city. When it was finished, and he saw its 
grandeur, his heart was puffed up with pride and arrogance, and he 
determined to build a royal palace, with gardens which should rival 
all related in the Koran of the celestial paradise. But the curse of 
heaven fell upon him for his presumption. He and his subjects were 
swept from the earth, and his splendid city, and palace, and gardens, 
were laid under a perpetual spell, which hides them from human sight, 
excepting that they are seen at intervals, by way of keeping his sin 
in perpetual remembrance.' 

"This story, O king, and the wonders I had seen, ever dwelt in 
my mind; and in after-years, when I had been in Egypt, and was 



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possessed of the book of knowledge of Solomon the Wise, I deter- 
mined to return and revisit the garden of Irem. I did so, and found it 
revealed to my instructed sight. I took possession of the palace of 
Sheddad, and passed several days in his mock paradise. The genii 
who watch over the place were obedient to my magic power, and 
revealed to me the spells by which the whole garden had been, as it 
were, conjured into existence, and by which it was rendered invisible. 
Such a palace and garden, O king, can I make for thee, even here, on 
the mountain above thy city. Do I not know all the secret spells ? 
and am I not in possession of the book of knowledge of Solomon the 
Wise?" 

"O wise son of Abu Ayub!" exclaimed Aben Habuz, trembling 
with eagerness, "thou art a traveller indeed, and hast seen and learned 
marvellous things! Contrive me such a paradise, and ask any reward, 
even to the half of my kingdom." 

"Alas!" replied the other, "thou knowest I am an old man, and 
a philosopher, and easily satisfied; all the reward I ask is the first 
beast of burden, with its load, which shall enter the magic portal of 
the palace." 

The monarch gladly agreed to so moderate a stipulation, and the 
astrologer began his work. On the summit of the hill, immediately 
above his subterranean hermitage, he caused a great gateway or 
barbican to be erected, opening through the centre of a strong tower. 

There was an outer vestibule or porch, with a lofty arch, and 
within it a portal secured by massive gates. On the keystone of 
the portal the astrologer, with his own hand, wrought the figure of a 
huge key; and on the keystone of the outer arch of the vestibule, 
which was loftier than that of the portal, he carved a gigantic hand. 
These were potent talismans, over which he repeated many sentences 
in an unknown tongue. 

When this gateway was finished, he shut himself up for two 
days in his astrological hall, engaged in secret incantations; on 
the third he ascended the hill, and passed the whole day on its sum- 
mit. At a late hour of the night he came down, and presented him- 
self before Aben Habuz. "At length, O king," said he, "my labor is 
accomplished. On the summit of the hill stands one of the most 
delectable palaces that ever the head of man devised, or the heart of 
man desired. It contains sumptuous halls and galleries, delicious 



WASHINGTON IRVING 277 

gardens, cool fountains, and fragrant baths; in a word, the whole 
mountain is converted into a paradise. Like the garden of Irem, it 
is protected by a mighty charm, which hides it from the view and 
search of mortals, excepting such as possess the secret of its talismans." 

"Enough!" cried Aben Habuz, joyfully, "to-morrow morning 
with the first light we will ascend and take possession." The happy 
monarch slept but little that night. Scarcely had the rays of the 
sun begun to play about the snowy summit of the Sierra Nevada, 
when he mounted his steed, and, accompanied only by a few chosen 
attendants, ascended a steep and narrow road leading up the hill. 
Beside him, on a white palfrey, rode the Gothic princess, her whole 
dress sparkling with jewels, while round her neck was suspended her 
silver lyre. The astrologer walked on the other side of the king, 
assisting his steps with his hieroglyphic staff, for he never mounted 
steed of any kind. 

Aben Habuz looked to see the towers of the palace brightening 
above him, and the embowered terraces of its gardens stretching 
along the heights; but as yet nothing of the kind was to be descried. 
"That is the mystery and safeguard of the place," said the astrologer, 
"nothing can be discerned until you have passed the spell-bound 
gateway, and been put in possession of the place." 

As they approached the gateway, the astrologer paused, and 
pointed out to the king the mystic hand and key carved upon the 
portal of the arch. "These," said he, "are the talismans which 
guard the entrance to this paradise. Until yonder hand shall reach 
down and seize that key, neither mortal power nor magic artifice 
can prevail against the lord of this mountain." 

While Aben Habuz was gazing, with open mouth and silent wonder, 
at these mystic talismans, the palfrey of the princess proceeded, 
and bore her in at the portal, to the very centre of the barbican. 

"Behold," cried the astrologer, "my promised reward; the first 
animal with its burden which should enter the magic gateway." 

Aben Habuz smiled at what he considered a pleasantry of the 
ancient man; but when he found him to be in earnest, his gray beard 
trembled with indignation. 

"Son of Abu Ayub," said he, sternly, "what equivocation is 
this? Thou knowest the meaning of my promise: the first beast 
of burden, with its load, that should enter this portal. Take the 



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strongest mule in my stables, load it with the most precious things 
of my treasury, and it is thine; but dare not raise thy thoughts to her 
who is the delight of my heart." 

"What need I of wealth?" cried the astrologer, scornfully; 
" have I not the book of knowledge of Solomon the Wise, and through 
it the command of the secret treasures of the earth ? The princess 
is mine by right; thy royal word is pledged;- I claim her as my own." 

The princess looked down haughtily from her palfrey, and a light 
smile of scorn curled her rosy lip at this dispute between two gray- 
beards for the possession of youth and beauty. The wrath of the 
monarch got the better of his discretion. "Base son of the desert," 
cried he, "thou mayst be master of many arts, but know me for thy 
master, and presume not to juggle with thy king." 

"My master! my king!" echoed the astrologer, — "the monarch 
of a mole-hill to claim sway over him who possesses the talismans of 
Solomon! Farewell, Aben Habuz; reign over thy petty kingdom, and 
revel in thy paradise of fools; for me, I will laugh at thee in my 
philosophic retirement." 

So saying, he seized the bridle of the palfrey, smote the earth with 
his staff, and sank with the Gothic princess through the centre of 
the barbican. The earth closed over them, and no trace remained 
of the opening by which they had descended. 

Aben Habuz was struck dumb for a time with astonishment. 
Recovering himself, he ordered a thousand workmen to dig, with 
pickaxe and spade, into the ground where the astrologer had dis- 
appeared. They digged and digged, but in vain; the flinty bosom 
of the hill resisted their implements; or if they did penetrate a little 
way, the earth filled in again as fast as they threw it out. Aben 
Habuz sought the mouth of the cavern at the foot of the hill, leading 
to the subterranean palace of the astrologer; but it was nowhere to 
be found. Where once had been an entrance, was now a solid surface 
of primeval rock. With the disappearance of Ibrahim Ebn Abu 
Ayub ceased the benefit of his talismans. The bronze horseman 
remained fixed, with his face turned toward the hill, and his spear 
pointed to the spot where the astrologer had descended, as if there 
still lurked the deadliest foe of Aben Habuz. 

From time to time the sound of music, and the tones of a female 
voice, could be faintly heard from the bosom of the hill; and a peasant 



WASHINGTON IRVING 279 

one day brought word to the king, that in the preceding night he had 
found a fissure in the rock, by which he had crept in, until he looked 
down into a subterranean hall, in which sat the astrologer, on a 
magnificent divan, slumbering and nodding to the silver lyre of the 
princess, which seemed to hold a magic sway over his senses. 

Aben Habuz sought the fissure in the rock, but it was again 
closed. He renewed the attempt to unearth his rival, but all in vain. 
The spell of the hand and key was too potent to be counteracted 
by human power. As to the summit of the mountain, the site of the 
promised palace and garden, it remained a naked waste; either the 
boasted elysium was hidden from sight by enchantment, or was a 
mere fable of the astrologer. The world charitably supposed the 
latter, and some used to call the place "The King's Folly"; while 
others named it "The Fool's Paradise." 

To add to the chagrin of Aben Habuz, the neighbors whom he 
had defied and taunted, and cut up at his leisure while master of the 
talismanic horseman, finding him no longer protected by magic 
spell, made inroads into his territories from all sides, and the remainder 
of the life of the most pacific of monarchs was a tissue of turmoils. 

At length Aben Habuz died, and was buried. Ages have since 
rolled away. The Alhambra has been built on the eventful moun- 
tain, and in some measure realizes the fabled delights of the garden 
of Irem. The spell-bound gateway still exists entire, protected no 
doubt by the mystic hand and key, and now forms the Gate of Justice, 
the grand entrance to the fortress. Under that gateway, it is said, the 
old astrologer remains in his subterranean hall, nodding on his divan, 
lulled by the silver lyre of the princess. 

The old invalid sentinels who mount guard at the gate hear 
the strains occasionally in the summer nights; and, yielding to their 
soporific power, doze quietly at their posts. Nay, so drowsy an 
influence pervades the place, that even those who watch by day may 
generally be seen nodding on the stone benches of the barbican, or 
sleeping under the neighboring trees; so that in fact it is the drowsiest 
military post in all Christendom. All this, say the ancient legends, 
will endure from age to age. The princess will remain captive to the 
astrologer; and the astrologer, bound up in magic slumber by the 
princess, until the last day, unless the mystic hand shall grasp the 
fated key, and dispel the whole charm of this enchanted mountain. 



280 AMERICAN PROSE 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 

A DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM 

The ways of God in Nature, as in Providence, are not as our ways; nor 
are the models that we frame any way commensurate to the vastness, pro- 
fundity, and unsearchableness of His works, which have a depth in them 
greater than the well of Democritus. 

Joseph Glanville. 

We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some 
minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak. 

"Not long ago," said he at length, "and I could have guided you 
on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three 
years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened 
before to mortal man — or at least such as no man ever survived to tell 
of — and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have 
broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very old man — but 
I am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from a 
a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, 
so that I tremble at the least exertion, and am frightened at a shadow. 
Do you know I can scarcely look over this little cliff without getting 
giddy?" 

The "little cliff," upon whose edge he had so carelessly thrown 
himself down to rest that the weightier portion of his body hung 
over it, while he was only kept from falling by the tenure of his elbow 
on its extreme and slippery edge — this "little cliff" arose, a sheer 
unobstructed precipice of black shining rock, some fifteen or sixteen 
hundred feet from the world of crags beneath us. Nothing would 
have tempted me to within half a dozen yards of its brink. In truth 
so deeply was I excited by the perilous position of my companion, 
that I fell at full length upon the ground, clung to the shrubs around 
me, and dared not even glance upward at the sky — while I struggled 
in vain to divest myself of the idea that the very foundations of the 
mountain were in danger from the fury of the winds. It was long 
before I could reason myself into sufficient courage to sit up and look 
out into the distance. 

"You must get over these fancies," said the guide, "for I have 
brought you here that you might have the best possible view of the 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 281 



scene of that event I mentioned— and to tell you the whole story with 
the spot just under your eye." 

"We are now," he continued, in that particularizing manner 
which distinguished him — "we are now close upon the Norwegian 
coast — in the sixty-eighth degree of latitude — in the great province of 
Nordland — and in the dreary district of Lofoden. The mountain 
upon whose top we sit is Helseggen, the Cloudy. Now raise your- 
self up a little higher — hold on to the grass if you feel giddy — so — and 
look out, beyond the belt of vapor beneath us, into the sea." 

I looked dizzily, and beheld a wide expanse of ocean, whose 
waters wore so inky a hue as to bring at once to my mind the Nubian 
geographer's account of the Mare Tenebrarum. A panorama more 
deplorably desolate no human imagination can conceive. To the 
right and left, as far as the eye could reach, there lay outstretched, like 
ramparts of the world, lines of horribly black and beetling cliff, whose 
character of gloom was but the more forcibly illustrated by the surf 
which reared high up against it its white and ghastly crest, howling 
and shrieking for ever. Just opposite the promontory upon whose 
apex we were placed, and at a distance of some five or six miles out 
at sea, there was visible a small, bleak-looking island; or, more 
properly, its position was discernible through the wilderness of surge 
in which it was enveloped. About two miles nearer the land, arose 
another of smaller size, hideously craggy and barren, and encom- 
passed at various intervals by a cluster of dark rocks. 

The appearance of the ocean, in the space between the more 
distant island and the shore, had something very unusual about it. 
Although, at the time, so strong a gale was blowing landward that a 
brig in the remote offing lay to under a double-reefed trysail, and con- 
stantly plunged her whole hull out of sight, still there was here nothing 
like a regular swell, but only a short, quick, angry cross dashing of 
water in every direction — as well in the teeth of the wind as otherwise. 
Of foam there was little except in the immediate vicinity of the rocks. 

"The island in the distance," resumed the old man, "is called 
by the Norwegians Vurrgh. The one midway is Moskoe. That a 
mile to the northward is Ambaaren. Yonder are Islesen, Hotholm, 
Keildhelm, Suarven, and Buckholm. Farther off — between Moskoe 
and Vurrgh — are Otterholm, Flimen, Sandflesen, and Stockholm. 
These are the true names of the places — but why it has been thought 



£82 AMERICAN PROSE 



necessary to name them at all, is more than either you or I can under- 
stand. Do you hear any thing? Do you see any change in the 
water?" 

We had now been about ten minutes upon the top of Helseggen, 
to which we had ascended from the interior of Lofoden, so that we 
had caught no glimpse of the sea until it had burst upon us from the 
summit. As the old man spoke, I became aware of a loud and 
gradually increasing sound, like the moaning of a vast herd of buffaloes 
upon an American prairie; and at the same moment I perceived that 
what seamen term the chopping character of the ocean beneath us, 
was rapidly changing into a current which set to the eastward. Even 
while I gazed, this current acquired a monstrous velocity. Each 
moment added to its speed — to its headlong impetuosity. In five 
minutes the whole sea, as far as Vurrgh, was lashed info ungovernable 
fury; but it was between Moskoe and the coast that the main uproar 
held its sway. Here the vast bed of the waters, seamed and scarred 
into a thousand conflicting channels, burst suddenly into phrensied 
convulsion — heaving, boiling, hissing — gyrating in gigantic and 
innumerable vortices, and all whirling and plunging on to the east- 
ward with a rapidity which water never elsewhere assumes except 
in precipitous descents. 

In a few minutes more, there came over the scene another radical 
alteration. The general surface grew somewhat more smooth, and 
the whirlpools, one by one, disappeared, while prodigious streaks 
of foam became apparent where none had been seen before. These 
streaks, at length, spreading out to a great distance, and entering into 
combination, took unto themselves- the gyratory motion of the sub- 
sided vortices, and seemed to form the germ of another more vast. 
Suddenly — very suddenly — this assumed a distinct and definite 
existence, in a circle of more than a mile in diameter. The edge of 
the whirl was represented by. a broad belt of gleaming spray; but 
no particle of this slipped into the mouth of the terrific funnel, whose 
interior, as far as the eye could fathom it, was a smooth, shining, and 
jet-black wall of water, inclined to the horizon at an angle of some 
forty-five degrees, speeding dizzily round and round with a swaying 
and sweltering motion, and sending forth to the winds an appalling 
voice, half shriek, half roar, such as not even the mighty cataract of 
Niagara ever lifts up in its agony to heaven. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 283 

The mountain trembled to its very base, and the rock rocked. 
I threw myself upon my face, and clung to the scant herbage in an 
excess of nervous agitation. 

"This," said I at length, to the old man — "this can be nothing 
else than the great whirlpool of the Maelstrom." 

"So it is sometimes termed," said he. "We Norwegians call 
it the Moskoe-strom, from the island of Moskoe in the midway." 

The ordinary accounts of this vortex had by no means prepared 
me for what I saw. That of Jonas Ramus, which is perhaps the most 
circumstantial of any, cannot impart the faintest conception either 
of the magnificence, or of the horror of the scene — or of the wild 
bewildering sense of the novel which confounds the beholder. I am 
not sure from what point of view the writer in question surveyed it, 
nor at what time; but it could neither have been from the summit 
of Helseggen, nor during a storm. There are some passages of his 
description, nevertheless, which may be quoted for their details, 
although their effect is exceedingly feeble in conveying an impression 
of the spectacle. 

"Between Lofoden and Moskoe," he says, "the depth of the 
water is between thirty- six and forty fathoms; but on the other side, 
toward Ver (Vurrgh) this depth decreases so as not to afford a con- 
venient passage for a vessel, without the risk of splitting on the rocks, 
which happens even in the calmest weather. When it is flood, the 
stream runs up the country between Lofoden and Moskoe with a 
boisterous rapidity; but the roar of its impetuous ebb to the sea is 
scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts; the noise 
being heard several leagues off, and the vortices or pits are of such an 
extent and depth, that if a ship comes within its attraction, it is 
inevitably absorbed and carried down to the bottom, and there beat 
to pieces against the rocks; and when the water relaxes, the fragments 
thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquillity 
are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and 
last but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually returning. When 
the stream is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by a storm, 
it is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts, 
and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it before 
they were within its reach. It likewise happens frequently, that 
whales come too near the stream, and are overpowered by its violence; 



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and then it is impossible to describe their howlings and bellowings 
in their fruitless struggles to disengage themselves. A bear once, 
attempting to swim from Lofoden to Moskoe, was caught by the 
stream and borne down, while he roared terribly, so as to be heard 
on shore. Large stocks of firs and pine trees, after being absorbed 
by the current, rise again broken and torn to such a degree as if 
bristles grew upon them. This plainly shows the bottom to consist 
of craggy rocks, among which they are whirled to and fro. This 
stream is regulated by the flux and reflux of the sea-^it being con- 
stantly high and low water every six hours. In the year 1645, early 
in the morning of Sexagesima Sunday, it raged with such noise and 
impetuosity that the very stones of the houses on the coast fell to the 
ground." 

In regard to the depth of the water, I could not see how this could 
have been ascertained at all in the immediate vicinity of the vortex. 
The "forty fathoms" must have reference only to portions of the 
channel close upon the shore either of Moskoe or Lofoden. The 
depth in the centre of the Moskoe-strom must be immeasurably 
greater; and no better proof of this fact is necessary than can be 
obtained from even the sidelong glance into the abyss of the whirl 
which may be had from the highest crag of Helseggen. Looking down 
from this pinnacle upon the howling Phlegethon below, I could not 
help smiling at the simplicity with which the honest Jonas Ramus 
records, as a matter difficult of belief, the anecdotes of the whales 
and the bears; for it appeared to me, in fact, a self-evident thing, 
that the largest ship of the line in existence, coming within the 
influence of that deadly attraction, could resist it as little as a feather 
the hurricane, and must disappear bodily and at once. 

The attempts to account for the phenomenon — some of which, 
I remember, seemed to me sufficiently plausible in perusal — now 
wore a very different and unsatisfactory aspect. The idea generally 
received is that this, as well as three smaller vortices among the 
Ferroe islands, "have no other cause than the collision of waves 
rising and falling, at flux and reflux, against a ridge of rocks and 
shelves, which confines the water so that it precipitates itself like a 
cataract; and thus the higher the flood rises, the deeper must the 
fall be, and the natural result of all is a whirlpool or vortex, the prodi- 
gious suction of which is sufficiently known by lesser experiments." — 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 285 

These are the words of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Kircher and 
others imagine that in the centre of the channel of the Maelstrom is 
an abyss penetrating the globe, and issuing in some very remote part — 
the Gulf of Bothnia being somewhat decidedly named in one instance. 
This opinion, idle in itself, was the one to which, as I gazed, 
my imagination most readily assented; and, mentioning it to 
the guide, I was rather surprised to hear him say that, although it 
was the view almost universally entertained of the subject by 
the Norwegians, it nevertheless was not his own. As to the for- 
mer notion he confessed his inability to comprehend it; and here 
I agreed with him — for, however conclusive on paper, it becomes 
altogether unintelligible, and even absurd, amid the thunder of the 
abyss. 

"You have had a good look at the whirl now," said the old man, 
"and if you will creep round this crag, so as to get in its lee, and 
deaden the roar of the water, I will tell you a story that will convince 
you I ought to know something of the Moskoe-strom." 

I placed myself as desired, and he proceeded. 

"Myself and my two brothers once owned a schooner-rigged 
smack of about seventy tons burthen, with which we were in the habit 
of fishing among the islands beyond Moskoe, nearly to Vurrgh. In 
all violent eddies at sea there is good fishing, at proper opportunities, 
if one has only the courage to attempt it; but among the whole of the 
Lofoden coastmen, we three were the only ones who made a regular 
business of going out to the islands, as I tell you. The usual grounds 
are a great way lower down to the southward. There fish can be 
got at all hours, without much risk, and therefore these places are 
preferred. The choice spots over here among the rocks, however, 
not only yield the finest variety, but in far greater abundance; so 
that we often got in a single day, what the more timid of the craft 
could not scrape together in a week. In fact, we made it a matter 
of desperate speculation — the risk of life standing instead of labor, 
and courage answering for capital. 

"We kept the smack in a cove about five miles higher up the 
coast than this; and it was our practice, in fine weather, to take ad- 
vantage of the fifteen minutes' slack to push across the main channel 
of the Moskoe-strom, far above the pool, and then drop down upon 
anchorage somewhere near Otterholm, or Sandflesen, where the eddies 



286 AMERICAN PROSE 



are not so violent as elsewhere. Here we used to remain until nearly- 
time for slack-water again, when we weighed and made for home. 
We never set out upon this expedition without a steady side wind for 
going and coming — one that we felt sure would not fail us before our 
return — and we seldom made a mis-calculation upon this point. 
Twice, during six years, we were forced to stay all night at anchor 
on account of a dead calm, which is a rare thing indeed just about 
here; and once we had to remain on the grounds nearly a week, 
starving to death, owing to a gale which blew up shortly after our 
arrival, and made the channel too boisterous to be thought of. Upon 
this occasion we should have been driven out to sea in spite of every- 
thing, (for the whirlpools threw us round and round so violently, that, 
at length, we fouled our anchor and dragged it) if it had not been 
that we drifted into one of the innumerable cross currents — here 
to-day and gone to-morrow — which drove us under the lee of Flimen, 
where, by good luck, we brought up. 

"I could not tell you the twentieth part of the difficulties we 
encountered 'on the ground' — it is a bad spot to be in, even in good 
weather — but we made shift always to run the gantlet of the Moskoe- 
strom itself without accident; although at times my heart has been 
in my mouth when we happened to be a minute or so behind or before 
the slack. The wind sometimes was not as strong as we thought it 
at starting, and then we made rather less way than we could wish, 
while the current rendered the smack unmanageable. My eldest 
brother had a son eighteen years old, and I had two stout boys of 
my own. These would have been of great assistance at such times, 
in using the sweeps, as well as afterward in fishing — but, somehow, 
although we ran the risk ourselves, we had not the heart to let the 
young ones get into the danger — for, after all is said and done, it was 
a horrible danger, and that is the truth. 

"It is now within a few days of three years since what I am going 
to tell you occurred. It was on the tenth day of July, 18 — , a day 
which the people of this part of the world will never forget — fo it 
was one in which blew the must terrible hurricane that ever came out 
of the heavens. And yet all the morning, and indeed until late in 
the afternoon, there was a gentle and steady breeze from the south- 
west, while the sun shone brightly, so that the oldest seaman among us 
could not have foreseen what was to follow. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 287 



"The three of us — my two brothers and myself — had crossed over 
to the islands about two o'clock P.M., and had soon nearly loaded 
the smack with fine fish, which, we all remarked, were more plenty 
that day than we had ever known them. It was just seven, by my 
watch, when we weighed and started for home, so as to make the worst 
of the Strom at slack water, which we knew would be at eight. 

"We set out with a fresh wind on our starboard quarter, and for 
some time spanked along at a great rate, never dreaming of danger, 
for indeed we saw not the slightest reason to apprehend it. All 
at once we were taken aback by a breeze from over Helseggen. This 
was most unusual — something that had never happened to us before — 
and I began to feel a little uneasy, without exactly knowing why. 
We put the boat on the wind, but could make no headway at all for 
the eddies, and I was upon the point of proposing to return to the 
anchorage, when, looking astern, we saw the whole horizon covered 
with a singular copper-colored cloud that rose with the most amazing 
velocity. 

"In the meantime the breeze that had headed us off fell away, 
and we were dead becalmed, drifting about in every direction. This 
state of things, however, did not last long enough to give us time to 
think about it. In less than a minute the storm was upon us — in 
less than two the sky was entirely overcast — and what with this and 
the driving spray, it became suddenly so dark that we could not see 
each other in the smack. 

"Such a hurricane as then blew it is folly to attempt describing. 
The oldest seaman in Norway never experienced any thing like it. 
We had let our sails go by the run before it cleverly took us; but, at 
the first puff, both our masts went by the board as if they had been 
sawed off — the mainmast taking with it my youngest brother, who 
had lashed himself to it for safety. 

"Our boat was the lightest feather of a thing that ever sat upon 
water. It had a complete flush deck, with only a small hatch near 
the bow, and this hatch it had always been our custom to batten 
down when about to cross the Strom, by way of precaution against 
the chopping seas. But for this circumstance we should have found- 
ered at once — for we lay entirely buried for some moments. How 
my elder brother escaped destruction I cannot say, for I never had 
an opportunity of ascertaining. For my part, as soon as I had let 



AMERICAN PROSE 



the foresail run, I threw myself flat on deck, with my feet against the 
narrow gunwale of the bow, and with my hands grasping a ring-bolt 
near the foot of the foremast. It was mere instinct that prompted 
me to do this — which was undoubtedly the very best thing I could 
have done — for I was too much flurried to think. 

"For some moments we were completely deluged, as I say, and 
all this time I held my breath, and clung to the bolt. When I could 
stand it no longer I raised myself upon my knees, still keeping hold 
with my hands, and thus got rny head clear. Presently our little 
boat gave herself a shake, just as a dog does in coming out of the 
water, and thus rid herself, in some measure, of the seas. I was now 
trying to get the better of the stupor that had come over me, and to 
collect my senses so as to see what was to be done, when I felt some- 
body grasp my arm. It was my elder brother, and my heart leaped 
for joy, for I had made sure that he was overboard — but the next 
moment all this joy was turned into horror — for he put his mouth 
close to my ear, and screamed out the word 'Moskoe-stromt' 

"No one ever will know what my feelings were at that moment. 
I shook from head to foot as if I had had the must violent fit of the 
ague. I knew what he meant by that one word well enough — I 
knew what he wished to make me understand. With the wind that 
now drove us on, we were bound for the whirl of the Strom, and noth- 
ing could save us! 

"You perceive that in crossing the Strom channel, we always 
went a long way up above the whirl, even in the calmest weather, and 
then had to wait and watch carefully for the slack; but now we were 
driving right upon the pool itself, and in such a hurricane as this! 
'To be sure,' I thought, 'we shall get there just about the slack — 
there is some little hope in that' — but in the next moment I cursed 
myself for being so great a fool as to dream of hope at all. I knew 
very well that we were doomed, had we been ten times a ninety-gun 
ship. 

"By this time the first fury of the tempest had spent itself, or 
perhaps we did not feel it so much, as we scudded before it, but at all 
events the seas, which at first had been kept down by the wind, and 
lay fiat and frothing, now got up into absolute mountains. A singu- 
lar change, too, had come over the heavens. Around in every direc- 
tion it was still as black as pitch, but nearly overhead there burst 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 289 



out, all at once, a circular rift of clear sky — as clear as I ever saw — 
and of a deep bright blue — and through it there blazed forth the full 
moon with a lustre that I never before knew her to wear. She lit 
up every thing about us with the greatest distinctness — but, oh God, 
what a scene it was to light up! 

"I now made one or two attempts to speak to my brother — but, 
in some manner which I could not understand, the din had so in- 
creased that I could not make him hear a single word, although I 
screamed at the top of my voice in his ear. Presently he shook his 
head, looking as pale as death, and held up one of his fingers, as if 
to say 'listen!' 

"At first I could not make out what he meant — but soon a hide- 
ous thought flashed upon me. I dragged my watch from its fob. It 
was not going. I glanced at its face by the moonlight, and then 
burst into tears as I flung it far away into the ocean. It had run 
down at seven o'clock! We were behind the time of the slack, and the 
whirl of the Strom was in full fury! 

"When a boat is well built, properly trimmed, and not deep 
laden, the waves in a strong gale, when she is going large, seem always 
to slip from beneath her — which appears very strange to a landsman — 
and this is what is called riding, in sea phrase. 

"Well, so far we had ridden the swells very cleverly ; but presently 
a gigantic sea happened to take us right under the counter, and bore 
us with it as it rose — up — up — as if into the sky. I would not have 
believed that any wave could rise so high. And then down we came 
with a sweep, a slide, and a plunge, that made me feel sick and dizzy, 
as if I was falling from some lofty mountain-top in a dream. But 
while we were up I had thrown a quick glance around — and that 
one glance was all sufficient. I saw our exact position in an instant. 
The Moskoe-strom whirlpool was about a quarter of a mile dead 
ahead — but no more like the every-day Moskoe-strom than the whirl 
as you now see it is like a mill-race. If I had not known where we 
were, and what we had to expect, I should not have recognised the 
place at all. As it was, I involuntarily closed my eyes in horror. 
The lids clenched themselves together as if in a spasm. 

"It could not have been more than two minutes afterward until 
we suddenly felt the waves subside, and were enveloped in foam. 
The boat made a sharp half turn to larboard, and then shot off in 



290 AMERICAN PROSE 



its new direction like a thunderbolt. At the same moment the roar- 
ing noise of the water was completely drowned in a kind of shrill 
shriek — such a sound as you might imagine given out by the waste- 
pipes of many thousand steam-vessels, letting off their steam all 
together. We were now in the belt of surf that always surrounds the 
whirl; and I thought, of course, that another moment would plunge 
us into the abyss — down which we could only see indistinctly on 
account of the amazing velocity with which we were borne along. 
The boat did not seem to sink into the water at all, but to skim like 
an air-bubble upon the surface of the surge. Her starboard side 
was next the whirl, and on the larboard arose the world of ocean 
we had left. It stood like a huge writhing wall between us and the 
horizon. 

"It may appear strange, but now, when we were in the very jaws 
of the gulf, I felt more composed than when we were only approaching 
it. Having made up my mind to hope no more, I got rid of a great 
deal of that terror which unmanned me at first. I suppose it was 
despair that strung my nerves. 

"It may look like boasting — but what I tell you is truth — I began 
to reflect how magnificent a thing it was to die in such a manner, and 
how foolish it was in me to think of so paltry a consideration as my 
own individual life, in view of so wonderful a manifestation of God's 
power. I do believe that I blushed with shame when this idea crossed 
my mind. After a little while I became possessed with the keenest 
curiosity about the whirl itself. I positively felt a wish to explore its 
depths, even at the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal 
grief was that I should never be able to tell my old companions on 
shore about the mysteries I should see. • These, no doubt, were 
singular fancies to occupy a man's mind in such extremity — and I 
have often thought since, that the revolutions of the boat around the 
pool might have rendered me a little light-headed. 

"There was another circumstance which tended to restore my 
self-possession; and this was the cessation of the wind, which could 
not reach us in our present situation — for, as you saw yourself, the 
belt of surf is considerably lower than the general bed of the ocean, 
and this latter now towered above us, a high, black, mountainous 
ridge. If you have never been at sea in a heavy gale, you can form 
no idea of the confusion of mind occasioned by the wind and spray 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 29 1 



together. They blind, deafen, and strangle you, and take away all 
power of action or reflection. But we were now, in a great measure, 
rid of these annoyances — just as death-condemned felons in prison 
are allowed petty indulgences, forbidden them while their doom is 
yet uncertain. 

"How often we made the circuit of the belt it is impossible to 
say. We careered round and round for perhaps an hour, flying rather 
than floating, getting gradually more and more into the middle of 
the surge, and then nearer and nearer to its horrible inner edge. All 
this time I had never let go of the ring-bolt. My brother was at 
the stern, holding on to a small empty water-cask which had been 
securely lashed under the coop of the counter, and was the only thing 
on deck that had not been swept overboard when the gale first took us. 
As we approached the brink of the pit he let go his hold upon this, 
and made for the ring, from which, in the agony of his terror, he 
endeavored to force my hands, as it was not large enough to afford 
us both a secure grasp. I never felt deeper grief than when I saw him 
attempt this act — although I knew he was a madman when he did 
it — a raving maniac through sheer fright. I did not care, however, to 
contest the point with him. I knew it could make no difference 
whether either of us held on at all; so I let him have the bolt, and 
went, astern to the cask. This there was no great difficulty in doing; 
for the smack flew round steadily enough, and upon an even keel — 
only swaying to and fro, with the immense sweeps and swelters of the 
whirl. Scarcely had I secured myself in my new position, when we 
gave a wild lurch to starboard, and rushed headlong into the abyss. 
I muttered a hurried prayer to God, and thought all was over. 

"As I felt the sickening sweep of the descent, I had instinctively 
tightened my hold upon the barrel, and closed my eyes. For some 
seconds I dared not open them — while I expected instant destruction, 
and wondered that I was not already in my death-struggles with the 
water. But moment after moment elapsed. I still lived. The 
sense of falling had ceased; and the motion of the vessel seemed much 
as it had been before, while in the belt of foam, with the exception 
that she now lay more along. I took courage and looked once again 
upon the scene. 

"Never shall I forget the sensations of awe, horror, and admira- 
tion with which I gazed about me. The boat appeared to be hanging, 



292 AMERICAN PROSE 



as if by magic, midway down, upon the interior surface of a funnel 
vast in circumference, prodigious in depth, and whose perfectly 
smooth sides might have been mistaken for ebony, but for the bewild- 
ering rapidity with which they spun around, and for the gleaming 
and ghastly radiance they shot forth, as the rays of the full moon, 
from that circular rift amid the clouds which I have already described, 
streamed in a flood of golden glory along the black walls, and far 
away down into the inmost recesses of the abyss. 

"At first I was too much confused to observe anything accurately. 
The general burst of terrific grandeur was all that I beheld. When 
I recovered myself a little, however, my gaze fell instinctively down- 
ward. In this direction I was able to obtain an unobstructed view, 
from the manner in which the smack hung on the inclined surface 
of the pool. She was quite upon an even keel — that is to say, her 
deck lay in a plane parallel with that of the water — but this latter 
sloped at an angle of more than forty-five degrees, so that we seemed 
to be lying upon our beam-ends. I could not help observing, never- 
theless, that I had scarcely more difficulty in maintaining my hold 
and footing in this situation, than if we had been upon a dead level; 
and this, I suppose, was owing to the speed at v/hich we revolved. 

"The rays of the moon seemed to search the very bottom of 
the profound gulf; but still I could make out nothing distinctly, 
on account of a thick mist in which everything there was enveloped, 
and over which there hung a magnificent rainbow, like that narrow 
and tottering bridge which Mussulmen say is the only pathway be- 
tween Time and Eternity. This mist, or spray, was no doubt occa- 
sioned by the clashing of the great walls of the funnel, as they all 
met together at the bottom — but the yell that went up to the Heavens 
from out of that mist, I dare not attempt to describe. 

"Our first slide into the abyss itself, from the belt of foam above, 
had carried us a great distance down the slope; but our farther descent 
was by no means proportionate. Round and round we swept — 
not with any uniform movement — but in dizzying swings and jerks, 
that sent us sometimes only a few hundred yards — sometimes nearly 
the complete circuit of the whirl. Our progress downward, at each 
revolution, was slow, but very perceptible. 

"Looking about me upon the wide waste of liquid ebony on which 
we were thus borne, I perceived that our boat was not the only object 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 203 



in the embrace of the whirl. Both above and below us were visible 
fragments of vessels, large masses of building timber and trunks of 
trees, with many smaller articles, such as pieces of house furniture, 
broken boxes, barrels and staves. I have already described the 
Unnatural curiosity which had taken the place of my original terrors. 
It appeared to grow upon me as I drew nearer and nearer to my 
dreadful doom. I now began to watch, with a strange interest, the 
numerous things that floated in our company. I must have been 
delirious — for I even sought amusement in speculating upon the 
relative velocities of their several descents toward the foam below. 
'This fir tree,' I found myself at one time saying, 'will certainly be 
the next thing that takes the awful plunge and disappears,' — and 
then I was disappointed to find that the wreck of a Dutch merchant 
ship overtook it and went down before. At length, after making 
several guesses of this nature, and being deceived in all — this fact — 
the fact of my invariable miscalculation, set me upon a train of reflec- 
tion that made my limbs again tremble, and my heart beat heavily 
once more. 

"It was not a new terror that thus affected me, but the dawn of a 
more exciting hope. This hope arose partly from memory, and partly 
from present observation. I called to mind the great variety of 
buoyant matter that strewed the coast of Lofoden, having been 
absorbed and then thrown forth by the Moskoe-strom. By far the 
greater number of the articles were shattered in the most extraor- 
dinary way — so chafed and roughened as to have the appearance 
of being stuck full of splinters — but then I distinctly recollected that 
there were some of them which were not disfigured at all. Now I 
could not account for this difference except by supposing that the 
roughened fragments were the only ones which had been completely 
absorbed — that the others had entered the whirl at so late a period 
of the tide, or, from some reason, had descended so slowly after enter- 
ing, that they did not reach the bottom before the turn of the flood 
came, or of the ebb, as the case might be. I conceived it possible, 
in either instance, that they might be thus whirled up again to the 
level of the ocean, without undergoing the fate of those which had 
been drawn in more early, or absorbed more rapidly. I made, also, 
three important observations. The first was, that, as a general rule, 
the larger the bodies were, the more rapid their descent — the second, 



294 AMERICAN PROSE 



that, between two masses of equal extent, the one spherical, and the 
other of any other shape, the superiority in speed of descent was with 
the sphere — the third, that, between two masses of equal size, the one 
cylindrical, and the other of any other shape, the cylinder was ab- 
sorbed the more slowly. Since my escape, I have had several con- 
versations on this subject with an old school-master of the district; 
and it was from him that I learned the use of the words 'cylinder' 
and 'sphere.' He explained to me — although I have forgotten the 
explanation — how what I observed was, in fact, the natural conse- 
quence of the forms of the floating fragments — and showed me how 
it happened that a cylinder, swimming in a vortex, offered more 
resistance to its suction, and was drawn in with greater difficulty than 
an equally bulky body, of any form whatever. 

"There was one startling circumstance which went a great way 
in enforcing these observations, and rendering me anxious to turn 
them to account, and this was that, at every revolution, we passed 
something like a barrel, or else the yard or the mast of a vessel, while 
many of these things, which had been on our level when I first opened 
my eyes upon the wonders of the whirlpool, were now high up above 
us, and seemed to have moved but little from their original station. 

"I no longer hesitated what to do. I resolved to lash myself 
securely to the water cask upon which I now held, to cut it loose from 
the counter, and to throw myself with it into the water. I attracted 
my brother's attention by signs, pointed to the floating barrels that 
came near us, and did everything in my power to make him under- 
stand what I was about to do. I thought at length that he compre- 
hended my design — but, whether this was the case or not, he shook 
his head despairingly, and refused to move from his station by the 
ring-bolt. It was impossible to reach him; the emergency admitted 
no delay; and so, with a bitter struggle, I resigned him to his fate, 
fastened myself to the cask by means of the lashings which secured 
it to the counter, and precipitated myself with it into the sea, without 
another moment's hesitation. 

"The result was precisely what I had hoped it might be. As 
it is myself who now tell you this tale — as you see that I did escape — 
and as you are already in possession of the mode in which this escape 
was effected, and must therefore anticipate all that I have farther 
to say — I will bring my story quickly to conclusion. It might have 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 295 

been an hour, or thereabout, after my quitting the smack, when, 
having descended to a vast distance beneath me, it made three or 
four wild gyrations in rapid succession, and, bearing my loved brother 
with it, plunged headlong, at once and forever, into the chaos of 
foam below. The barrel to which I was attached sunk very little 
farther than half the distance between the bottom of the gulf and 
the spot at which I leaped overboard, before a great change took place 
in the character of the whirlpool. The slope of the sides of the vast 
funnel became momently less and less steep. The gyrations of the 
whirl grew, gradually, less and less violent. By degrees, the froth 
and the rainbow disappeared, and the bottom of the gulf seemed 
slowly to uprise. The sky was clear, the winds had gone down, 
and the full moon was setting radiantly in the west, when I found 
myself on the surface of the ocean, in full view of the shores of 
Lofoden, and above the spot where the pool of the Moskoe-strom 
had been. It was the hour of the slack — but the sea still heaved in 
mountainous waves from the effects of the hurricane. I was borne 
violently into the channel of the Strom, and in a few minutes was 
hurried down the coast into the 'grounds' of the fishermen. A boat 
picked me up — exhausted from fatigue — and (now that the danger 
was removed) speechless from the memory of its horror. Those who 
drew me on board were my old mates and daily companions — but 
they knew me no more than they would have known a traveller from 
the spirit-land. My hair which had been raven-black the day before, 
was as white as you see it now. They say too that the whole expres- 
sion of my countenance had changed. I told them my story — they 
did not believe it. I now tell it to you — and I can scarcely expect 
you to put more faith in it than did the merry fishermen of Lofoden." 

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER 

"Son cceur est un luth suspendu; 
Sitot qu'on le touche il resonne." 

— De Beranger. 

During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn 
of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I 
had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary 
tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the 



296 AMERICAN PROSE 



evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. 
I know not how it was — but, with the first glimpse of the building, a 
sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; 
for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half -pleasurable, because 
poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the 
sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon 
the scene before me — upon the mere house, and the simple landscape 
features of the domain — upon the bleak walls — upon the vacant eye- 
like windows — upon a few rank sedges — and upon a few white trunks 
of decayed trees — with an utter depression of soul which I can compare 
to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of 
the reveller upon opium — the bitter lapse into every-day life — the 
hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a 
sickening of the heart — an unredeemed dreariness of thought which 
no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sub- 
lime. What was it — I paused to think — what was it that so unnerved 
me in the contemplation of the House of Usher ? It was a mystery all 
insoluble; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded 
upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatis- 
factory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations 
of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting 
us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond 
our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrange- 
ment of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would 
be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrow- 
ful impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the 
precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled lustre 
by the dwelling, and gazed down — but with a shudder even more 
thrilling than before — upon the remodelled and inverted images of 
the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eye- 
like windows. 

Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to myself 
a sojourn of some weeks. Its proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been 
one of my boon companions in boyhood; but many years had elapsed 
since our last meeting. A letter, however, had lately reached me in 
a distant part of the country — a letter from him— which, in its wildly 
importunate nature, had admitted of no other than a personal reply. 
The MS. gave evidence of nervous agitation. The writer spoke of 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 297 

acute bodily illness — of a mental disorder which oppressed him — and 
of an earnest desire to see me, as his best, and indeed his only personal 
friend, with a view of attempting, by the cheerfulness of my society, 
some alleviation of his malady. It was the manner in which all this, 
and much more, was said — it was the apparent heart that went with his 
request — which allowed me no room for hesitation; and I accordingly 
obeyed forthwith what I still considered a very singular summons. 

Although, as boys, we had been even intimate associates, yet 
I really knew little of my friend. His reserve had been always exces- 
sive and habitual. I was aware, however, that his very ancient 
family had been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar sensibility 
of temperament, displaying itself, through long ages, in many works of 
exalted art, and manifested, of late, in repeated deeds of munificent 
yet unobtrusive charity, as well as in a passionate devotion to the 
intricacies, perhaps even more than to the orthodox and easily recog- 
nisable beauties, of musical science. I had learned, too, the very 
remarkable fact, that the stem of the Usher race, all time-honored 
as it was, had put forth, at no period, any enduring branch; in other 
words, that the entire family lay in the direct line of descent, and had 
always, with very trifling and very temporary variation, so lain. 
It was this deficiency, I considered, while running over in thought the 
perfect keeping of the character of the premises with the accredited 
character of the people, and while speculating upon the possible 
influence which the one, in the long lapse of centuries, might have 
exercised upon the other — it was this deficiency, perhaps, of collateral 
issue, and the consequent undeviating transmission, from sire to 
son, of the patrimony with the name, which had, at length, so identi- 
fied the two as to merge the original title of the estate in the quaint 
and equivocal appellation of the "House of Usher" — an appellation 
which seemed to include, in the minds of the peasantry who used it, 
both the family and the family mansion. 

I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish experi- 
ment — that of looking down within the tarn — had been to deepen the 
first singular impression. There can .be no doubt that the conscious- 
ness of the rapid increase of my superstition — for why should I not 
so term it ? — served mainly to accelerate the increase itself. Such, 
I have long known, is the paradoxical law of all sentiments having 
terror as a basis. And it might have been for this reason only, that, 



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when I again uplifted my eyes to the house itself, from its image in 
the pool, there grew in my mind a strange fancy — a fancy so ridiculous, 
indeed, that I but mention it to show the vivid force of the sensations 
which oppressed me. I had so worked upon my imagination as really 
to believe that about the whole mansion and domain there hung an 
atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity — 
an atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which 
had reeked up from the decayed trees, and the gray wall, and the 
silent tarn — a pestilent and mystic vapor, dull, sluggish, faintly 
discernible, and leaden-hued. Shaking off from my spirit what must 
have been a dream, I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the 
building. Its principal feature seemed to be that of an excessive 
antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi 
overspread the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work 
from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from any extraordinary dilapi- 
dation. No portion of the masonry had fallen; and there appeared 
to be a wild inconsistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts, 
and -the crumbling condition of the individual stones. In this there 
was much that reminded me of the specious totality of old wood- 
work which has rotted for long years in some neglected vault, with 
no disturbance from the breath of the external air. Beyond this 
indication of extensive decay, however, the fabric gave little token 
of instability. Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer might have 
discovered a barely perceptible fissure, which, extending from the 
roof of the building in front, made its way down the wall in a zigzag 
direction, until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tarn. 

Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the house. 
A servant in waiting took my horse, and I entered the Gothic arch- 
way of the hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence conducted me, in 
silence, through many dark and intricate passages in my progress to 
the studio of his master. Much that I encountered on the way con- 
tributed, I know not how, to heighten the vague sentiments of which 
I have already spoken. While the objects around me — while the 
carvings of the ceilings, the sombre tapestries of the walls, the ebon 
blackness of the floors, and the phantasmagoric armorial trophies 
which rattled as I strode, were but matters to which, or to such as 
which, I had been accustomed from my infancy — while I hesitated 
not to acknowledge how familiar was all this — I still wondered to 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 299 



find how unfamiliar were the fancies which ordinary images were 
stirring up. On one of the staircases, I met the physician of the 
family. His countenance, I thought, wore a mingled expression of 
low cunning and perplexity. He accosted me with trepidation and 
passed on. The valet now threw open a door and ushered me into 
the presence of his master. 

The room in which I found myself was very large and lofty. The 
windows were long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance 
from the black oaken floor as to be altogether inaccessible from within. 
Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their way through the trel- 
lissed panes, and served to render sufficiently distinct . the more 
prominent objects around; the eye, however, struggled in vain to 
reach the remoter angles of the chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted 
and fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the walls. The gen- 
eral furniture was profuse, comfortless, antique, and tattered. Many 
books and musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to give 
any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of 
sorrow. An air of stern, deep, and irredeemable gloom hung over 
and pervaded all. 

Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa on which he had been 
lying at full length, and greeted me with a vivacious warmth which 
had much in it, I at first thought, of an overdone cordiality — of the 
constrained effort of the ennuye man of the world. A glance, however, 
at his countenance, convinced me of his perfect sincerity. We sat 
down; and for some moments, while he spoke not, I gazed upon him 
with a feeling half of pity, half of awe. Surely, man had never before 
so terribly altered, in so brief a period, as had Roderick Usher! It 
was with difficulty that I could bring myself to admit the identity 
of the wan being before me with the companion of my early boyhood. 
Yet the character of his face had been at all times remarkable. A 
cadaverousness of complexion; an eye large, liquid, and luminous 
beyond comparison; lips somewhat thin and very pallid, but of a 
surpassingly beautiful curve; a nose of a delicate Hebrew model, 
but with a breadth of nostril unusual in similar formations; a finely 
moulded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, of a want of moral 
energy; hair of a more than web-like softness and tenuity; these 
features, with an inordinate expansion above the regions of the temple, 
made up altogether a countenance not easily to be forgotten. And 



30o 



AMERICAN PROSE 



now in the mere exaggeration of the prevailing character of these 
features, and of the expression they were wont to convey, lay so much 
of change that I doubted to whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor 
of the skin, and the now miraculous lustre of the eye, above all things 
startled and even awed me. The silken hair, too, had been suffered 
to grow all unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, it floated 
rather than fell about the face, I could not, even with effort, connect 
its Arabesque expression with any idea of simple humanity. 

In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an inco- 
herence — an inconsistency; and I soon found this to arise from a 
series of feeble and futile struggles to overcome an habitual trepidancy 
— an excessive nervous agitation. For something of this nature I had 
indeed been prepared, no less by his letter, than by reminiscences of 
certain boyish traits, and by conclusions deduced from his peculiar 
physical conformation and temperament. His action was alternately 
vivacious and sullen. His voice varied rapidly from a tremulous 
indecison (when the animal spirits seemed utterly in abeyance) to 
that species of energetic concision — that abrupt, weighty, unhurried, 
and hollow-sounding enunciation — that leaden, self-balanced and 
perfectly modulated guttural utterance, which may be observed in the 
lost drunkard, or the irreclaimable eater of opium, during the periods 
of his most intense excitement. 

It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his earnest 
desire to see me, and of the solace he expected me to afford him. 
He entered, at some length, into what he conceived to be the nature of 
his malady. It was, he said, a constitutional and a family evil, and 
one for which he despaired to find a remedy — a mere nervous affec- 
tion, he immediately added, which would undoubtedly soon pass off. 
It displayed itself in a host of unnatural sensations. Some of these, 
as he detailed them, interested and bewildered me; although, per- 
haps, the terms, and the general manner of the narration had their 
weight. He suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the senses; 
the most insipid food was alone endurable; he could wear only gar- 
ments of certain texture; the odors of all flowers were oppressive; 
his eyes were tortured by even a faint light; and there were but 
peculiar sounds, and these from stringed instruments, which did not 
inspire him with horror. 

To an anomalous species of terror I found him a bounden slave. 
"I shall perish," said he, "I must perish in this deplorable folly. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 30 1 

Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events 
of the future, not in themselves, but in their results. I shudder at 
the thought of any, even the most trivial, incident, which may operate 
upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence 
of danger, except in its absolute effect — in terror. In this unnerved — 
in this pitiable condition — I feel that the period will sooner or later 
arrive when I must abandon life and reason together, in some struggle 
with the grim phantasm, Fear." 

I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and 
equivocal hints, another singular feature of his mental condition. 
He was enchained by certain superstitious impressions in regard to 
the dwelling which he tenanted, and whence, for many years, he had 
never ventured forth — in regard to an influence whose supposititious 
force was conveyed in terms too shadowy here to be re-stated — an 
influence which some peculiarities in the mere form and substance 
of his family mansion, had, by dint of long sufferance, he said, ob- 
tained over his spirit — an effect which the physique of the gray walls 
and turrets, and of the dim tarn into which they all looked down, had, 
at length, brought about upon the morale of his existence. 

He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much 
of the peculiar gloom which thus afflicted him could be traced to 
a more natural and far more palpable origin — to the severe and long- 
continued illness — indeed to the evidently approaching dissolution — 
of a tenderly beloved sister — his sole companion for long years — his 
last and only relative on earth. "Her decease," he said, with a bitter- 
ness which I can never forget, "would leave him (him the hopeless 
and the frail) the last of the ancient race of the Ushers." While he 
spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was she called) passed slowly through 
a remote portion of the apartment, and, without having noticed my 
presence, disappeared. I regarded her with an utter astonishment 
not unmingled with dread — and yet I found it impossible to account 
for such feelings. A sensation of stupor oppressed me, as my eyes 
followed her retreating steps. When a door, at length, closed upon 
her, my glance sought instinctively and eagerly the countenance of 
the brother — but he had buried his face in his hands, and I could 
only perceive that a far more than ordinary wanness had overspread 
the emaciated fingers through which trickled many passionate tears. 

The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of 
her physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of the 



302 AMERICAN PROSE 



person, and frequent although transient affections of a partially cata- 
leptical character, were the usual diagnosis. Hitherto she had 
steadily borne up against the pressure of her malady, and had not 
betaken herself finally to bed; but, on the closing in of the evening of 
my arrival at the house, she succumbed (as her brother told me at 
night with inexpressible agitation) to the prostrating power of the 
destroyer; and I learned that the glimpse I had obtained of her 
person would thus probably be the last I should obtain — that the 
lady, at least while living, would be seen by me no more. 

For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either 
Usher or myself: and during this period I was busied in earnest 
endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of my friend. We painted and 
read together; or I listened, as if in a dream, to the wild improvisations 
of his speaking guitar. And thus, as a closer and still closer intimacy 
admitted me more unreservedly into the recesses of his spirit, the 
more bitterly did I perceive the futility of all attempt at cheering a 
mind from which darkness, as if an inherent positive quality, poured 
forth upon all objects of the moral and physical universe, in one 
unceasing radiation of gloom. 

I shall ever bear about me a memory of the many solemn hours 
I thus spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I 
should fail in any attempt to convey an idea of the exact character of 
the studies, or of the occupations, in which he involved me, or led 
me the way. An excited and highly distempered ideality threw a 
sulphureous lustre over all. His long improvised dirges will ring 
forever in my ears. Among other things, I hold painfully in mind a 
certain singular perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last 
waltz of Von Weber. From the paintings over which his elaborate 
fancy brooded, and which grew, touch by touch, into vaguenesses 
at which I shuddered the more thrillingly, because I shuddered know- 
ing not why; — from these paintings (vivid as their images now are 
before me) I would in vain endeavor to educe more than a small por- 
tion which should lie within the compass of merely written words. 
By the utter simplicity, by the nakedness of his designs, he arrested 
and overawed attention. If ever mortal painted an idea, that mortal 
was Roderick Usher. For me at least — in the circumstances then 
surrounding me — there arose out of the pure abstractions which 
the hypochondriac contrived to throw upon his canvass, an inten- 
sity of intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 303 



contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries of 
Fuseli. 

One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, partaking 
not so rigidly of the spirit of abstraction, may be shadowed forth, 
although feebly, in words. A small picture presented the interior 
of an immensely long and rectangular vault or tunnel, with low walls, 
smooth, white, and without interruption or device. Certain acces- 
sory points of the design served well to convey the idea that this exca- 
vation lay at an exceeding depth below the surface of the earth. No 
outlet was observed in any portion of its vast extent, and no torch, 
or other artificial source of light was discernible; yet a flood of intense 
rays rolled throughout, and bathed the whole in a ghastly and inappro- 
priate splendor. 

I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory 
nerve which rendered all music intolerable to the sufferer, with the 
exception of certain effects of stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, 
the narrow limits to which he thus confined himself upon the guitar, 
which gave birth, in great measure, to the fantastic character of his 
performances. But the fervid facility of his impromptus could not 
be so accounted for. They must have been, and were, in the notes, 
as well as in the words of his wild fantasias (for he not unfrequently 
accompanied himself with rhymed verbal improvisations), the result 
of that intense mental collectedness and concentration to which I 
have previously alluded as observable only in particular moments 
of the highest artificial excitement. The words of one of these 
rhapsodies I have easily remembered. I was, perhaps, the more 
forcibly impressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the under or 
mystic current of its meaning, I fancied that I perceived, and for the 
first time, a full consciousness on the part of Usher, of the tottering of 
his lofty reason upon her throne. The verses, which were entitled 
"The Haunted Palace," ran very nearly, if not accurately, thus: 

I. 

In the greenest of our valleys, 

By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace — 

Radiant palace — reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion — 

It stood there! 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 



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II. 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow; 
(This — -all this — was in the olden 

Time long ago) 
And every gentle air that dallied, 

In that sweet day, 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor went away. 

III. 

Wanderers in that happy valley 

Through two luminous windows saw 
Spirits moving musically 

To a lute's well-tuned law, 
Round about a throne, where sitting 

(Porphyrogene!) 
In state his glory well befitting, 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

IV. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door, 
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes whose sweet duty 

Was but to sing, 
In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 



But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

Assailed the monarch's high estate; 
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him, desolate !) 
And, round about his home, the glory 

That blushed and bloomed 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 305 



VI. 

And travellers now within that valley, 

Through the red-litten windows, see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody; 
While, like a rapid ghastly river, 

Through the pale door, 
A hideous throng rush out forever, 

And laugh — but smile no more. 

I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad, led 
us into a train of thought wherein there became manifest an opinion 
of Usher's which I mention not so much on account of its novelty, 
(for other men have thought thus) as on account of the pertinacity 
with which he maintained it. This opinion, in its general form, was 
that of the sentience of all vegetable things. But, in his disordered 
fancy, the idea had assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, 
under certain conditions, upon the kingdom of inorganization. I 
lack words to express the full extent, or the earnest abandon of his 
persuasion. The belief, however, was connected (as I have previously 
hinted) with the gray stones of the home of his forefathers. The 
conditions of the sentience had been here, he imagined, fulfilled in 
the method of collocation of these stones — in the order of their 
arrangement, as well as in that of the many fungi which overspread 
them, and of the decayed trees which stood around — above all, in the 
long undisturbed endurance of this arrangement, and in its reduplica- 
tion in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence — the evidence of the 
sentience — was to be seen, he said, (and I here started as he spoke,) in 
the gradual yet certain condensation of an atmosphere of their own 
about the waters and the walls. The result was discoverable, he 
added, in that silent, yet importunate and terrible influence which 
for centuries had moulded the destinies of his family, and which made 
him what I now saw him — what he was. Such opinions need no 
comment, and I will make none. 

Our books — the books which, for years, had formed no small 
portion of the mental existence of the invalid — were, as might be 
supposed, in strict keeping with this character of phantasm. We 
pored together over such works as the Ververt et Chartreuse of 
Gresset; the Belphegor of Machiavelli; the Heaven and Hell of 



306 AMERICAN PROSE 



Swedenborg; the Subterranean Voyage of Nicholas Klimm by 
Holberg; the Chiromancy of Robert Flud, of Jean D'Indagine, and 
of De la Chambre; the Journey into the Blue Distance of Tieck; 
and the City of the Sun of Campanella. One favorite volume was a 
small octavo edition of the Directorium Inquisitorium, by the Domini- 
can Eymeric de Gironne; and there were passages in Pomponius 
Mela, about the old African Satyrs and CEgipans, over which Usher 
would sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight, however, was found 
in the perusal of an exceedingly rare and curious book in quarto 
Gothic — the manual of a forgotten church — the Vigiliae Mortuorum 
secundum Chorum Ecclesiae Maguntinae. 

I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of 
its probable influence upon the hypochondriac, when, one evening, 
having informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline was no more, 
he stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight, 
(previously to its final interment,) in one of the numerous vaults 
within the main walls of the building. The worldly reason, however, 
assigned for this singular proceeding, was one which I did not feel 
at liberty to dispute. The brother had been led to his resolution 
(so he told me) by consideration of the unusual character of the 
malady of the deceased, of certain obtrusive and eager inquiries on 
the part of her medical men, and of the remote and exposed situation 
of the burial-ground of the family. I will not deny that when I 
called to mind the sinister countenance of the person whom I met 
upon the staircase, on the day of my arrival at the house, I had no 
desire to oppose what I regarded as at best but a harmless, and by no 
means an unnatural, precaution. 

At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the arrange- 
ments for the temporary entombment. The body having been en- 
coffined, we two alone bore it to its rest. The vault in which we 
placed it (and which had been so long unopened that our torches, 
half smothered in its oppressive atmosphere, gave us little opportunity 
for investigation) was small, damp, and entirely without means of 
admission for light; lying, at great depth, immediately beneath that 
portion of the building in which was my own sleeping apartment. 
It had been used, apparently, in remote feudal times, for the worst 
purposes of a donjon-keep, and, in later days, as a place of deposit 
for powder, or some other highly combustible substance, as a portion 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 307 



of its floor, and the whole interior of a long archway through which 
we reached it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, of 
massive iron, had been, also, similarly protected. Its immense weight 
caused an unusually sharp grating sound, as it moved upon its hinges. 

Having deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within 
this region of horror, we partially turned aside the yet unscrewed lid 
of the coffin, and looked upon the face of the tenant. A striking 
similitude between the brother and sister now first arrested my atten- 
tion; and Usher, divining, perhaps, my thoughts, murmured out 
some few words from which I learned that the deceased and himself 
had been twins, and that sympathies of a scarcely intelligible nature 
had always existed between them. Our glances, however, rested not 
long upon the dead — for we could not regard her unawed. The 
disease which had thus entombed the lady in the maturity of youth, 
had left, as usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical character, 
the mockery of a faint blush upon the bosom and the face, and that 
suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death. 
We replaced and screwed down the lid, and, -having secured the door 
of iron, made our way, with toil, into the scarcely less gloomy apart- 
ments of the upper portion of the house. 

And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable 
change came over the features of the mental disorder of my friend. 
His ordinary manner had vanished. His ordinary occupations were 
neglected or forgotten. He roamed from chamber to chamber with 
hurried, unequal, and objectless step. The pallor of his countenance 
had assumed, if possible, a more ghastly hue — but the luminousness 
of his eye had utterly gone out. The once occasional huskiness of his 
tone was heard no more; and a tremulous quaver, as if of extreme 
terror, habitually characterized his utterance. There were times, 
indeed, when I thought his unceasingly agitated mind was laboring 
with some oppressive secret, to divulge which he struggled for the 
necessary courage. At times, again, I was obliged to resolve all into 
the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, for I beheld him gazing 
upon vacancy for long hours, in an attitude of the profoundest atten- 
tion, as if listening to some imaginary sound. It was no wonder that 
his condition terrified — that it infected me. I felt creeping upon me, 
by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of his own fantastic 
yet impressive superstitions. 



308 AMERICAN PROSE 



It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the 
seventh or eighth day after the placing the lady Madeline within the 
donjon, that I experienced the full power of such feelings. Sleep 
came not near my couch — while the hours waned and waned away. 
I struggled to reason off the nervousness which had dominion over 
me. I endeavored to believe that much, if not all of what Iielt, was 
due to the bewildering influence of the gloomy furniture of the room — 
of the dark and tattered draperies, which, tortured into motion by 
the breath of a rising tempest, swayed fitfully to and fro upon the 
walls, and rustled uneasily about the decorations of the bed. But 
my efforts were fruitless. An irrepressible tremor gradually pervaded 
my frame; and, at length, there sat upon my very heart an incubus of 
utterly causeless alarm. Shaking this off with a gasp and a struggle, 
I uplifted myself upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly within 
the intense darkness of the chamber, harkened — I know not why. 
except that an instinctive spirit prompted me — to certain low and 
indefinite sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm, at long 
intervals, I knew not whence. Overpowered by an intense sentiment 
of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my clothes with 
haste (for I felt that I should sleep no more during the night), and 
endeavored to arouse myself from the pitiable condition into which 
I had fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro through the apartment. 

I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an 
adjoining staircase arrested my attention. I presently recognized 
it as that of Usher. In an instant afterward he rapped, with a gentle 
touch, at my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His countenance 
was, as usual, cadaverously wan — but, moreover, there was a species 
of mad hilarity in his eyes — an evidently restrained hysteria in his 
whole demeanor. His air appalled me — but anything was preferable 
to the solitude which I had so long endured, and I even welcomed his 
presence as a relief. 

"And you have not seen it ? " he said abruptly, after having stared 
about him for some moments in silence — "you have not then seen 
it? — but, stay! you shall." Thus speaking, and having carefully 
shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the casements, and threw it 
freely open to the storm. 

The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us from our 
feet. It was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night, and 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 309 



one wildly singular in its terror and its beauty. A whirlwind had 
apparently collected its force in our vicinity; for there were frequent 
and violent alterations in the direction of the wind; and the exceeding 
density of the clouds (which hung so low as to press upon the turrets 
of the house) did not prevent our perceiving the life-like velocity 
with which they flew careering from all points against each other, 
without passing away into the distance. I say that even their 
exceeding density did not prevent our perceiving this — yet we had no 
glimpse of the moon or stars — nor was there any flashing forth of 
the lightning. But the under surfaces of the huge masses of agitated 
vapor, as well as all terrestrial objects immediately around us, were 
glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and distinctly 
visible gaseous exhalation which hung about and enshrouded the 
mansion. 

"You must not, you shall not behold this!" said I, shudderingly, 
to Usher, as I led him, with a gentle violence, from the window to a 
seat. "These appearances, which bewilder you, are merely electrical 
phenomena not uncommon — or it may be that they have their ghastly 
origin in the rank miasma of the tarn. Let us close this casement; — 
the air is chilling and dangerous to your frame. Here is one of your 
favorite romances. I will read, and you shall listen; — and so we will 
pass away this terrible night together." 

The antique volume which I had taken up was the "Mad Trist" 
of Sir Launcelot Canning; but I had called it a favorite of Usher's 
more in sad jest than in earnest; for, in truth, there is little in its 
uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could have had interest 
for the lofty and spiritual ideality of my friend. It was, however, 
the only book immediately at hand; and I indulged a vague hope 
that the excitement which now agitated the hypochondriac, might 
find relief (for the history of mental disorder is full of similar anom- 
alies) even in the extremeness of the folly which I should read. 
Could I have judged, indeed, by the wild overstrained air of vivacity 
with which he harkened, or apparently harkened, to the words of 
the tale, I might well have congratulated myself upon the success of 
my design. 

I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where Ethel- 
red, the hero of the Trist, having sought in vain for peaceable admis- 
sion into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to make good an 



3io AMERICAN PROSE 



entrance by force. Here, it will be remembered, the words of the 
narrative run thus: 

"And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who 
was now mighty withal, on account of the powerfulness of the wine 
which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold parley with the her- 
mit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but, feeling 
the rain upon his shoulders, and fearing the rising of the tempest, 
uplifted his mace outright, and, with blows, made quickly room in 
the plankings of the door for his gauntleted hand; and now pulling 
therewith sturdily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore all asunder, 
that the noise of the dry and hollow-sounding wood alarummed and 
reverberated throughout the forest." 

At the termination of this sentence I started, and for a moment, 
paused; for it appeared to me (although I at once concluded that 
my excited fancy had deceived me) — it appeared to me that, 
from some very remote portion of the mansion, there came, indis- 
tinctly, to my ears, what might have been, in its exact similarity of 
character, the echo (but a stifled and dull one certainly) of the very 
cracking and ripping sound which Sir Launcelot had so particularly 
described. It was, beyond doubt, the coincidence alone which had 
arrested my attention; for, amid the rattling of the sashes of the 
casements, and the ordinary commingled noises of the still increasing 
storm, the sound, in itself, had nothing, surely, which should have 
interested or disturbed me. I continued the story: 

"But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, 
was sore enraged and amazed to perceive no signal of the maliceful 
hermit; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and prodigious 
demeanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in guard before a palace 
of gold, with a floor of silver; and upon the wall there hung a shield 
of shining brass with this legend enwritten — 

Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin; 
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win. 

And Ethelred uplifted his mace, and struck upon the head of the 
dragon, which fell before him, and gave up his pesty breath, with a 
shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that Ethelred 
had fain to close his ears with his hands against the dreadful noise 
of it, the like whereof was never before heard." 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 311 



Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild 
amazement — for there could be no doubt whatever that, in this 
instance, I did actually hear (although from what direction it pro- 
ceeded I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently distant, but 
harsh, protracted, and most unusual screaming or grating sound — 
the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already conjured up 
for the dragon's unnatural shriek as described by the romancer. 

Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of this second 
and most extraordinary coincidence, by a thousand conflicting 
sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror were predominant, 
I still retained sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any 
observation, the sensitive nervousness of my companion. I was by 
no means certain that he had noticed the sounds in question; although, 
assuredly, a strange alteration had, during the last few minutes, taken 
place in his demeanor. From a position fronting my own, he had 
gradually brought round his chair, so as to sit with his face to the 
door of the chamber; and thus I could but partially perceive his 
features, although I saw that his lips trembled as if he were murmur- 
ing inaudibly. His head had dropped upon his breast — yet I knew 
that he was not asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye 
as I caught a glance of it in profile. The motion of his body, too, was 
at variance with this idea — for he rocked from side to side with a 
gentle yet constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken notice 
of all this, I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus 
proceeded: 

"And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible 
fury of the dragon, bethinking himself of the brazen shield, and of the 
breaking up of the enchantment which was upon it, removed the 
carcass from out of the way before him, and approached valorously 
over the silver pavement of the castle to where the shield was upon 
the wall; which in sooth tarried not for his full coming, but fell down 
at his feet upon the silver floor, with a mighty great and terrible 
ringing sound." 

No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than — as if a shield 
of brass had indeed, at the moment, fallen heavily upon a floor of 
silver — I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous, 
yet apparently muffled reverberation. Completely unnerved, I 
leaped to my feet; but the measured rocking movement of Usher was 



312 AMERICAN PROSE 



undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which he sat. His eyes were 
bent fixedly before him, and throughout his whole countenance there 
reigned a stony rigidity. But, as I placed my hand upon his shoulder, 
there came a strong shudder over his whole person; a sickly smile 
quivered about his lips; and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, 
and gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of my presence. Bending 
closely over him, I at length drank in the hideous import of his 
words. 

"Not hear it ? — yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long — long- 
long — many minutes, many hours, many days, have I heard it — yet 
I dared not — oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am! — I dared 
not — I dared not speak! We have put her living in the tomb! Said 
I not that my senses were acute? I now tell you that I heard her 
first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. I heard them — many, 
many days ago — yet I dared not — / dared not speak! And now — 
to-night — Ethelred — ha! ha! — the breaking of the hermit's door, 
and the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor of the shield! — 
say, rather, the rending of her coffin, and the grating of the iron 
hinges of her prison, and her struggles within the coppered archway 
of the vault! Oh whither shall I fly? Will she not be here anon? 
Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for my haste ? Have I not heard 
her footstep on the stair? Do I not distinguish that heavy and 
horrible beating of her heart? Madman!" Here he sprang furi- 
ously to his feet, and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he 
were giving up his soul — "Madman! I tell you that she now stands 
without the door!" 

As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been 
found the potency of a spell — the huge antique pannels to which the 
speaker pointed, threw slowly back, upon the instant, their ponderous 
and ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust — but then 
without those doors there did stand the lofty and enshrouded figure 
of the lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood upcn her white 
robes, and the evidence of some bitter struggle upon every portion 
of her emaciated frame. For a moment she remained trembling 
and reeling to and fro upon the threshold— then, with a low moan- 
ing cry, fell heavily inward upon the person of her brother, and in 
her violent and now final death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, 
and a victim to the terrors he had anticipated. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 313 



From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast. The 
storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself crossing the 
old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and 
I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued; for the 
vast house and its shadows were alone behind me. The radiance 
was that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon, which now shone 
vividly through that once barely-discernible fissure, of which I have 
before spoken as extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag 
direction, to the base. While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened — 
there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind — the entire orb of the 
satellite burst at once upon my sight — my brain reeled as I saw the 
mighty walls rushing asunder — there was a long tumultuous shouting 
sound like the voice of a thousand waters — and the deep and dank 
tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the 
"Hotise of Usher." 

THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 

Impia tortorum longos hie turba furores 
Sanguinis innocui, non satiata, aluit. 
Sospite nunc patria, fracto nunc funeris antro, 
Mors ubi dira fuit vita salusque patent. 

[Quatrain composed for the gates of a market to be erected upon the site 

of the Jacobin Club House at Paris.] 

I was sick — sick unto death with that long agony; and when they 
at length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses 
were leaving me. The sentence — the dread sentence of death — 
was the last of distinct accentuation which reached my ears. After 
that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices seemed merged in one 
dreamy indeterminate hum. It conveyed to my soul the idea of 
revolution — perhaps from its association in fancy with the burr of a 
mill-wheel. This only for a brief period; for presently I heard no 
more. Yet, for a while, I saw; but with how terrible an exaggera- 
tion! I saw the lips of the black-robed judges. They appeared to 
me white — whiter than the sheet upon which I trace these words — 
and thin even to grotesqueness ; thin with the intensity of their expres- 
sion of firmness — of immoveable resolution — of stern contempt of 
human torture. I saw that the decrees of what to me was Fate, 



314 AMERICAN PROSE 



were still issuing from those lips. I saw them writhe with a deadly 
locution. I saw them fashion the syllables of my name; and I shud- 
dered because no sound succeeded. I saw, too, for a few moments 
of delirious horror, the soft and nearly imperceptible waving of the 
sable draperies which enwrapped the walls of the apartment. And 
then my vision fell upon the seven tall candles upon the table. At 
first they wore the aspect of charity, and seemed white slender angels 
who would save me; but then, all at once, there came a most deadly 
nausea over my spirit, and I felt every fibre in my frame thrill as if 
I had touched the wire of a galvanic battery, while the angel forms 
became meaningless spectres, with heads of flame, and I saw that from 
them there would be no help. And then there stole into my fancy, 
like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must 
be in the grave. The thought came gently and stealthily, and it 
seemed long before it attained full appreciation; but just as my spirit 
came at length properly to feel and entertain it, the figures of the 
judges vanished, as if magically, from before me; the tall candles 
sank into nothingness; their flames went out utterly; the blackness 
of darkness supervened; all sensations appeared swallowed up in a 
mad rushing descent as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and 
stillness, and night were the universe. 

I had swooned; but still will not say that all of consciousness was 
lost. What of it there remained I will not attempt to define, or even 
to describe; yet all was not lost. In the deepest slumber — no! In 
delirium — no! In a swoon — no! In death — no! even in the grave 
all is not lost. Else there is no immortality for man. Arousing from 
the most profound of slumbers, we break the gossamer web of some 
dream. Yet in a second afterward, (so frail may that web have been) 
we remember not that we have dreamed. In the return to life from 
the swoon there are two stages; first, that of the sense of mental or 
spiritual; secondly, that of the sense of physical, existence. It 
seems probable that if, upon reaching the second stage, we could recall 
the impressions of the first, we should find these impressions eloquent 
in memories of the gulf beyond. And that gulf is — what? How 
at least shall we distinguish its shadows from those of the tomb ? 
But if the impressions of what I have termed the first stage, are not, 
at will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they not come unbidden, 
while we marvel whence they come ? He who has never swooned, is 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 315 



not he who finds strange palaces and wildly familiar faces in coals 
that glow; is not he who beholds floating in mid-air the sad visions 
that the many may not view; is not he who ponders over the perfume 
of some novel flower — is not he whose brain grows bewildered with 
the meaning of some musical cadence which has never before arrested 
his attention. 

Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to remember; amid 
earnest struggles to regather some token of the state of seeming 
nothingness into which my soul had lapsed, there have been moments 
when I have dreamed of success; there have been brief, very brief 
periods when I have conjured up remembrances which the lucid reason 
of a later epoch assures me could have had reference only to that 
condition of seeming unconsciousness. These shadows of memory 
tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and bore me in silence 
down — down — still down — till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at 
the mere idea of the interminableness of the descent. They tell also 
of a vague horror at my heart, on account of that heart's unnatural 
stillness. Then comes a sense of sudden motionlessness throughout 
all things; as if those who bore me (a ghastly train!) had outrun, in 
their descent, the limits of the limitless, and paused from the weari- 
someness of their toil. After this I call to mind flatness and damp- 
ness; and then all is madness — the madness of a memory which busies 
itself among forbidden things. 

Very suddenly there came back to my soul motion and sound — 
the tumultuous motion of the heart, and, in my ears, the sound of its 
beating. Then a pause in which all is blank. Then again sound, 
and motion, and touch — a tingling sensation pervading my frame. 
Then the mere consciousness of existence, without thought — a condi- 
tion which lasted long. Then, very suddenly, thought, and shudder- 
ing terror, and earnest endeavor to comprehend my true state. 
Then a strong desire to lapse into insensibility. Then a rushing 
revival of soul and a successful effort to move. And now a full 
memory of the trial, of the judges, of the sable draperies, of the 
sentence, of the sickness, of the swoon. Then entire forgetfulness 
of all that followed; of all that a later day and much earnestness of 
endeavor have enabled me vaguely to recall. 

So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt that I lay upon my 
back, unbound. I reached out my hand, and it fell heavily upon 



316 AMERICAN PROSE 



something damp and hard. There I suffered it to remain for many 
minutes, while I strove to imagine where and what I could be. I 
longed, yet dared not to employ my vision. I dreaded the first glance 
at objects around me. It was not that I feared to look upon things 
horrible, but that I grew aghast lest there should be nothing to see. 
At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I quickly unclosed my 
eyes. My worst thoughts, then, were confirmed. The blackness of 
eternal night encompassed me. I struggled for breath. The in- 
tensity of the darkness seemed to oppress and stifle me. The atmos- 
phere was intolerably close. I still lay quietly, and made effort 
to exercise my reason. I brought to mind the inquisitorial proceed- 
ings, and attempted from that point to deduce my real condition. 
The sentence had passed; and it appeared to me that a very long 
interval of time had since elapsed. Yet not for a moment did I 
suppose myself actually dead. Such a supposition, notwithstanding 
what we read in fiction, is altogether inconsistent with real existence; 
— but where and in what state was I ? The condemned to death, I 
knew, perished usually at the autos-da-fe, and one of these had been 
held on the very night of the day of my trial. Had I been remanded 
to my dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which would not take 
place for many months ? This I at once saw could not be. Victims 
had been in immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon, as well as 
all the condemned cells at Toledo, had stone floors, and light was not 
altogether excluded. 

A fearful idea now suddenly drove the blood in torrents upon 
my heart, and for a brief period, I once more relapsed into insensi- 
bility. Upon recovering, I at once started to my feet, trembling 
convulsively in every fibre. I thrust my arms wildly above and 
around me in all directions. I felt nothing; yet dreaded to move a 
step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of a tomb. Perspiration 
burst from every pore, and stood in cold big beads upon my forehead. 
The agony of suspense, grew at length intolerable, and I cautiously 
moved forward, with my arms extended, and my eyes straining from 
their sockets, in the hope of catching some faint ray of fight. I pro- 
ceeded for many paces; but still all was blackness and vacancy. I 
breathed more freely. It seemed evident that mine was not, at- least, 
the most hideous of fates. 

And now, as I still continued to step cautiously onward, there 
came thronging upon my recollection a thousand vague rumors of 



EDGAR ALLAN FOE 317 



the horrors of Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been strange 
things narrated — fables I had always deemed them — but yet strange, 
and too ghastly to repeat, save in a whisper. Was I left to perish of 
starvation in this subterranean world of darkness; or what fate, 
perhaps even more fearful, awaited me? That the result would be 
death, and a death of more than customary bitterness, I knew too 
well the character of my judges to doubt. The mode and the hour 
were all that occupied or distracted me. 

My outstretched hands at length encountered some solid obstruc- 
tion. It was a wall, seemingly of stone masonry — very smooth, slimy, 
and cold. I followed it up; stepping with all the careful distrust with 
which certain antique narratives had inspired me. This process, 
however, afforded me no means of ascertaining the dimensions of my 
dungeon; as I might make its circuit, and return to the point whence 
I set out, without being aware of the fact ; so perfectly uniform seemed 
the wall. I therefore sought the knife which had been in my pocket, 
when led into the inquisitorial chamber; but it was gone; my clothes 
had been exchanged for a wrapper of coarse serge. I had thought 
of forcing the blade in some minute crevice of the masonry, so as to 
identify my point of departure. The difficulty, nevertheless, was 
but trivial; although, in the disorder of my fancy, it seemed at first 
insuperable. I tore a part of the hem from the robe and placed the 
fragment at full length, and at right angles to the wall. In groping 
my way around the prison, I could not fail to encounter this rag 
upon completing the circuit. So, at least, I thought: but I had not 
counted upon the extent of the dungeon, or upon my own weakness. 
The ground was moist and slippery. I staggered onward for some 
time, when I stumbled and fell. My excessive fatigue induced me 
to remain prostrate ; and sleep soon overtook me as I lay. 

Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I found beside 
me a loaf and a pitcher with water. I was too much exhausted to 
reflect upon this circumstance, but ate and drank with avidity. 
Shortly afterward, I resumed my tour around the prison, and with 
much toil, came at last upon the fragment of the serge. Up to the 
period when I fell, I had counted fifty-two paces, and, upon resuming 
my walk, I had counted forty-eight more — when I arrived at the rag. 
There were in all, then, a hundred paces; and, admitting two paces 
to the yard, I presumed the dungeon to be fifty yards in circuit. I 
had met, however, with many angles in the wall, and thus I could 



318 AMERICAN PROSE 



form no guess at the shape of the vault; for vault I could not help 
supposing it to be. 

I had little object — certainly no hope — in these researches; but 
a vague curiosity prompted me to continue them. Quitting the wall, 
I resolved to cross the area of the enclosure. At first, I proceeded 
with extreme caution, for the floor, although seemingly of solid 
material, was treacherous with slime. At length, however, I took 
courage, and did not hesitate to step firmly — endeavoring to cross in 
as direct a line as possible. I had advanced some ten or twelve paces 
in this manner, when the remnant of the torn hem of my robe became 
entangled between my legs. I stepped on it, and fell violently on 
my face. 

In the confusion attending my fall, I did not immediately appre- 
hend a somewhat startling circumstance, which yet, in a few seconds 
afterward, and while I still lay prostrate, arrested my attention. It 
was this: my chin rested upon the floor of the prison, but my lips, 
and the upper portion of my head, although seemingly at a less eleva- 
tion than the chin, touched nothing. At the same time, my fore- 
head seemed bathed in a clammy vapor, and the peculiar smell of 
decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I put forward my arm, and 
shuddered to find that I had fallen at the very brink of a circular pit, 
whose extent, of course, I had no means of ascertaining at the moment. 
Groping about the masonry just below the margin, I succeeded in 
dislodging a small fragment, and let it fall into the abyss. For many 
seconds I hearkened to its reverberations as it dashed against the 
sides of the chasm in its descent: at length, there was a sudden plunge 
into water, succeeded by loud echoes. At the same moment, there 
came a sound resembling the quick opening, and as rapid closing of a 
door overhead, while a faint gleam of light flashed suddenly through 
the gloom, and as suddenly faded away. 

I saw clearly the doom which had been prepared for me, and con- 
gratulated myself upon the timely accident by which I had escaped. 
Another step before my fall, and the world had seen me no more. 
And the death just avoided, was of that very character which I had 
regarded as fabulous and frivolous in the tales respecting the Inquisi- 
tion. To the victims of its tyranny, there was the choice of death 
with its direst physical agonies, or death with its most hideous moral 
horrors. I had been reserved for the latter. By long suffering my 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 310. 



nerves had been unstrung, until I trembled at the sound of my own 
voice, and had become in every respect a fitting subject for the species 
of torture which awaited me. 

Shaking in every limb, I groped my way back to the wall — resolv- 
ing there to perish rather than risk the terror of the wells, of which 
my imagination now pictured many in various positions about the 
dungeon. In other conditions of mind, I might have had courage 
to end my misery at once, by a plunge into one of these abysses; but 
now I was the veriest of cowards. Neither could I forget what I had 
read of these pits — that the sudden extinction of life formed no part 
of their most horrible plan. 

Agitation of spirit kept me awake for many long hours; but at 
length I again slumbered. Upon arousing, I found by my side, as 
before, a loaf and a pitcher of water. A burning thirst consumed me, 
and I emptied the vessel at a draught. It must have been drugged — 
for scarcely had I drunk, before I became irresistibly drowsy. A deep 
sleep fell upon me — a sleep like that of death. How long it lasted, 
of course I know not; but when, once again, I unclosed my eyes, the 
objects around me were visible. By a wild, sulphurous lustre, the 
origin of which I could not at first determine, I was enabled to see the 
extent and aspect of the prison. 

In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The whole circuit of its 
walls did not exceed twenty-five yards. For some minutes this fact 
occasioned me a world of vain trouble; vain indeed — for what 
could be of less importance, under the terrible circumstances which 
environed me, than the mere dimensions of my dungeon ? But my 
soul took a wild interest in trifles, and I busied myself in endeavors 
to account for the error I had committed in my measurement. The 
truth at length flashed upon me. In my first attempt at exploration, 
I had counted fifty-two paces, up to the period when I fell: I must 
then have been within a pace or two of the fragment of serge; in 
fact, I had nearly performed the circuit of the vault. I then slept — 
and, upon awaking, I must have returned upon my steps — thus sup- 
posing the circuit nearly double what it actually was. My confusion 
of mind prevented me from observing that I began my tour with the 
wall to the left, and ended it with the wall to the right. 

I had been deceived, too, in respect to the shape of the enclosure. 
In feeling my way, I had found many angles, and thus deduced an 



320 AMERICAN PROSE 



idea of great irregularity; so potent is the effect of total darkness 
upon one arousing from lethargy or sleep! The angles were simply 
those of a few slight depressions, or niches, at odd intervals. The 
general shape of the prison was square. What I had taken for 
masonry, seemed now to be iron, or some other metal, in huge plates, 
whose sutures or joints occasioned the depression. The entire surface 
of this metallic enclosure was rudely daubed in all the hideous and 
repulsive devices to which the charnel superstition of the monks has 
given rise. The figures of fiends in aspects of menace, with skeleton 
forms, and other more really fearful images, overspread and dis- 
figured the walls. I observed that the outlines of these monstrosities 
were sufficiently distinct, but that the colors seemed faded and 
blurred, as if from the effects of a damp atmosphere. I now noticed 
the floor, too, which was of stone. In the centre yawned the circular 
pit from whose jaws I had escaped; but it was the only one in the 
dungeon. 

All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort — for my personal 
condition had been greatly changed during slumber. I now lay 
upon my back, and at full length, on a species of low framework of 
wood. To this I was securely bound by a long strap resembling a 
surcingle. It passed in many convolutions about my limbs and body, 
leaving at liberty only my head, and my left arm to such extent, that 
I could, by dint of much exertion, supply myself with food from an 
earthen dish which lay by my side on the floor. I saw, to my horror, 
that the pitcher had been removed. I say, to my horror — for I was 
consumed with intolerable thirst. This thirst it appeared to be 
the design of my persecutors to stimulate — for the food in the dish 
was meat pungently seasoned. 

Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of my prison. It was 
some thirty or forty feet overhead, and constructed much as the side 
walls. In one of its panels a very singular figure riveted my whole 
attention. It was the painted figure of Time as he is commonly 
represented, save that, in lieu of a scythe, he held what, at a casual 
glance, I supposed to be the pictured image of a huge pendulum, such 
as we see on antique clocks. There was something, however, in 
the appearance of this machine which caused me to regard it more 
attentively. While I gazed directly upward at it, (for its position 
was immediately over my own,) I fancied that I saw it in motion. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 32 1 



In an instant afterward the fancy was confirmed. Its sweep was 
brief, and of course slow. I watched it for some minutes, somewhat 
in fear, but more in wonder. Wearied at length with observing its 
dull movement, I turned my eyes upon the other objects in the 
cell. 

A slight noise attracted my notice, and, looking to the floor, I 
saw several enormous rats traversing it. They had issued from the 
well, which lay just within view to my right. Even then, while I 
gazed, they came up in troops, hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, allured 
by the scent of the meat. From this it required much effort and 
attention to scare them away. 

It might have been half an hour, perhaps even an hour, (for I 
could take but imperfect note of time,) before I again cast my eyes 
upward. What I then saw, confounded and amazed me. The sweep 
of the pendulum had increased in extent by nearly a yard. As a 
natural consequence, its velocity was also much greater. But what 
mainly disturbed me, was the idea that it had perceptibly descended. 
I now observed — with what horror it is needless to say — that its 
nether extremity was formed of a crescent of glittering steel, about 
a foot in length from horn to horn; the horns upward, and the under 
edge evidently as keen as that of a razor. Like a razor also, it seemed 
massy and heavy, tapering from the edge into a solid and broad 
structure above. It was appended to a weighty rod of brass, and the 
whole hissed as it swung through the air. 

I could no longer doubt the doom prepared for me by monkish 
ingenuity in torture. My cognizance of the pit had become known 
to the inquisitorial agents — the pit, whose horrors had been destined 
for so bold a recusant as myself — the pit, typical of hell, and regarded 
by rumor as the Ultima Thule of all their punishments. The plunge 
into this pit I had avoided by the merest of accidents, and I knew that 
surprise, or entrapment into torment, formed an important portion 
of all the grotesquerie of these dungeon deaths. Having failed to 
fall, it was no part of the demon plan to hurl me into the abyss; and 
thus (there being no alternative) a different and a milder destruction 
awaited me. Milder! I half smiled in my agony as I thought of such 
application of such a term. 

What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of horror more than 
mortal, during which I counted the rushing vibrations of the steel! 



3 22 AMERICAN PROSE 



Inch by inch — line by line — with a descent only appreciable at inter- 
vals that seemed ages — down and still down it came! Days passed — 
it might have been that many days passed — ere it swept so closely 
over me as to fan me with its acrid breath. The odor of the sharp 
steel forced itself into my nostrils. I prayed — I wearied heaven 
with my prayer for its more speedy descent. I grew frantically mad, 
and struggled to force myself upward against the sweep of the fear- 
ful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly calm, and lay smiling at the 
glittering death, as a child at some rare bauble. 

There was another interval of utter insensibility; it was brief; 
for, upon again lapsing into life, there had been no perceptible descent 
in the pendulum. But it might have been long — for I knew there 
were demons who took note of my swoon, and who could have arrested 
the vibration at pleasure. Upon my recovery, too, I felt very — oh, 
inexpressibly — sick and weak, as if through long inanition. Even 
amid the agonies of that period, the human nature craved food. 
With painful effort I outstretched my left arm as far as my bonds 
permitted, and took possession of the small remnant, which had been 
spared me by the rats. As I put a portion of it within my lips, there 
rushed to my mind a half-formed thought of joy — of hope. Yet what 
business had / with hope ? It was, as I say, a half-formed thought — 
man has many such, which are never completed. I felt that it was 
of joy — of hope; but I felt also that it had perished in its formation. 
In vain I struggled to perfect — to regain it. Long suffering had 
nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile 
— an idiot. 

The vibration of the pendulum was at right angles to my length. 
I saw that the crescent was designed to cross the region of the heart. 
It would fray the serge of my robe — it would return and repeat its 
operations — again — and again. Notwithstanding its terrifically wide 
sweep, (some thirty feet or more,) and the hissing vigor of its descent, 
sufficient to sunder these very walls of iron, still the fraying of my 
robe would be all that, for several minutes, it would accomplish. 
And at this thought I paused. I dared not go farther than this reflec- 
tion. I dwelt upon it with a pertinacity of attention — as if, in so 
dwelling, I could arrest here the descent of the steel. I forced myself 
to ponder upon the sound of the crescent as it should pass across the 
garment — upon the peculiar thrilling sensation which the friction of 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 323 

cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered upon all this frivolity 
until my teeth were on edge. 

Down — steadily down it crept. I took a frenzied pleasure in 
contrasting its downward with its lateral velocity. To the right — 
to the left — far and wide — with the shriek of a damned spirit ! to my 
heart, with the stealthy pace of the tiger! I alternately laughed and 
howled, as the one or the other idea grew predominant. 

Down — certainly, relentlessly down! It vibrated within three 
inches of my bosom! I struggled violently — furiously— to free my 
left arm. This was free only from the elbow to the hand. I could 
reach the latter, from the platter beside me, to my mouth, with great 
effort, but no farther. Could I have broken the fastenings above the 
elbow, I would have seized and attempted to arrest the pendulum. 
I might as well have attempted to arrest an avalanche! 

Down — still unceasingly — still inevitably down! I gasped and 
struggled at each vibration. I shrunk convulsively at its every sweep. 
My eyes followed its outward or upward whirls with the eagerness 
of the most unmeaning despair; they closed themselves spasmodically 
at the descent, although death would have been a relief, oh, how un- 
speakable! Still I quivered in every nerve to think how slight a 
sinking of the machinery would precipitate that keen, glistening axe 
upon my bosom. It was hope that prompted the nerve to quiver — the 
frame to shrink. It was hope — the hope that triumphs on the rack — 
that whispers to the death-condemned even in the dungeons of the 
Inquisition. 

I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations would bring the steel 
in actual contact with my robe — and with this observation there 
suddenly came over my spirit all the keen, collected calmness of 
despair. For the first time during many hours — or perhaps days — I 
thought. It now occurred to me, that the bandage, or surcingle, 
which enveloped me, was unique. I was tied by no separate cord. 
The first stroke of the razor-like crescent athwart any portion of the 
band, would so detach it that it might be unwound from my person 
by means of my left hand. But how fearful, in that case, the prox- 
imity of the steel! The result of the slightest struggle, how deadly! 
Was it likely, moreover, that the minions of the torturer had not 
foreseen and provided for this possibility ? Was it probable that the 
bandage crossed my bosom in the track of the pendulum ? Dreading 



324 AMERICAN PROSE 



to find my faint, and, as it seemed, my last hope frustrated, I so 
far elevated my head as to obtain a distinct view of my breast. 
The surcingle enveloped my limbs and body close in all directions — 
save in the path of the destroying crescent. 

Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its original position, 
when there flashed upon my mind what I cannot better describe than 
as the unformed half of that idea of deliverance to which I have 
previously alluded, and of which a moiety only floated indeterminately 
through my brain when I raised food to my burning lips. The whole 
thought was now present — feeble, scarcely sane, scarcely definite; — 
but still entire. I proceeded at once, with the nervous, energy of 
despair, to attempt its execution. 

For many hours the immediate vicinity of the low frame-work 
upon which I lay, had been literally swarming with rats. They were 
wild, bold, ravenous — their red eyes glaring upon me as if they waited 
but for motionlessness on my part to make me their prey. "To 
what food," I thought, "have they been accustomed in the well ?" 

They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts to prevent them, 
all but a small remnant of the contents of the dish. I had fallen 
into an habitual see-saw, or wave of the hand about the platter; 
and, at length, the unconscious uniformity of the movement deprived 
it of effect. In their voracity, the vermin frequently fastened their 
sharp fangs in my fingers. With the particles of the oily and spicy 
viand which now remained, I thoroughly rubbed the bandage 
wherever I could reach it; then, raising my hand from the floor, I 
lay breathlessly still. 

At first, the ravenous animals were startled and terrified at the 
change — at the cessation of movement. They shrank alarmedly 
back; many sought the well. But this was only for a moment. 
I had not counted in vain upon their voracity. Observing that I 
remained without motion, one or two of the boldest leaped upon the 
frame-work, and smelt at the surcingle. This seemed the signal for 
a general rush. Forth from the well they hurried in fresh troops. 
They clung to the wood — they overran it, and leaped in hundreds 
upon my person. The measured movement of the pendulum 
disturbed them not at all. Avoiding its strokes, they busied them- 
selves with the anointed bandage. They pressed — they swarmed 
upon me in ever accumulating heaps. They writhed upon my throat; 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 325 

their cold lips sought my own; I was half stifled by their thronging 
pressure; disgust, for which the world has no name, swelled my 
bosom, and chilled, with a heavy clamminess, my heart. Yet one 
minute, and I felt that the struggle would be over. Plainly I per- 
ceived the loosening of the bandage. I knew that in more than 
one place it must be already severed. With a more than human 
resolution I lay still. 

Nor had I erred in my calculations — nor had I endured in vain. 
I at length felt that I was free. The surcingle hung in ribands from 
my body. But the stroke of the pendulum already pressed upon my 
bosom. It had divided the serge of the robe. It had cut through the 
linen beneath. Twice again it swung, and a sharp sense of pain shot 
through every nerve. But the moment of escape had arrived. At 
a wave of my hand my deliverers hurried tumultuously away. With 
a steady movement — cautious, sidelong, shrinking, and slow — I slid 
from the embrace of the bandage and beyond the reach of the scimitar. 
For the moment, at least, i" was free. 

Free! — and in the grasp of the Inquisition! I had scarcely 
stepped from my wooden bed of horror upon the stone floor of the 
prison, when the motion of the hellish machine ceased, and I beheld 
it drawn up, by some invisible force, through the ceiling. This was 
a lesson which I took desperately to heart. My every motion was 
undoubtedly watched. Free! — I had but escaped death in one form 
of agony, to be delivered unto worse than death in some other. With 
that thought I rolled my eyes nervously around on the barriers of 
iron that hemmed me in. Something unusual — some change which, 
at first, I could not appreciate distinctly — it was obvious, had taken 
place in the apartment. For many minutes of a dreamy and trem- 
bling abstraction, I busied myself in vain, unconnected conjecture. 
During this period, I became aware, for the first time, of the origin of 
the sulphurous light which illumined the cell. It proceeded from a 
fissure, about half an inch in width, extending entirely around the 
prison at the base of the walls, which thus appeared, and were com- 
pletely separated from the floor. I endeavored, but of course in 
vain, to look through the aperture. 

As I arose from the attempt, the mystery of the alteration in the 
chamber broke at once upon my understanding. I have observed that , 
although the outlines of the figures upon the walls were sufficiently 



326 AMERICAN PROSE 

distinct, yet the colors seemed blurred and indefinite. These colors 
had now assumed, and were momentarily assuming, a startling and 
most intense brilliancy, that gave to the spectral and fiendish 
portraitures an aspect that might have thrilled even firmer nerves 
than my own. Demon eyes, of a wild and ghastly vivacity, glared 
upon me in a thousand directions, where none had been visible before, 
and gleamed with the lurid lustre of a fire that I could not force my 
imagination to regard as unreal. 

Unreal! — Even while I breathed there came to my nostrils the 
breath of the vapor of heated iron! A suffocating odor pervaded 
the prison! A deeper glow settled each moment in the eyes that 
glared at my agonies! A richer tint of crimson diffused itself over 
the pictured horrors of blood. I panted! I gasped for breath! 
There could be no doubt of the design of my tormentors — oh! most 
unrelenting! oh ! most demoniac of men ! I shrank from the glowing 
metal to the centre of the cell. Amid the thought of the fiery 
destruction that impended, the idea of the coolness of the well came 
over my soul like balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. I threw my 
straining vision below. The glare from the enkindled roof illumined 
its inmost recesses. Yet, for a wild moment, did my spirit refuse 
to comprehend the meaning of what I saw. At length it forced — it 
wrestled its way into my soul — it burned itself in upon my shuddering 
reason. Oh! for a voice to speak! — oh! horror! — oh! any horror 
but this! With a shriek, I rushed from the margin, and buried my 
face in my hands — weeping bitterly. 

The heat rapidly increased, and once again I looked up, shudder- 
ing as with a fit of the ague. There had been a second change in the 
cell — and now the change was obviously in the form. As before, it 
was in vain that I at first endeavored to appreciate or understand 
what was taking place. But not long was I left in doubt. The 
Inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried by my two-fold escape, 
and there was to be no more dallying with the King of Terrors. The 
room had been square. I saw that two of its iron angles were now 
acute — two, consequently, obtuse. The fearful difference quickly 
increased with a low rumbling or moaning sound. In an instant 
the apartment had shifted its form into that of a lozenge. But the 
alteration stopped not here — I neither hoped nor desired it to stop. 
I could have clasped the red walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 327 



peace. "Death," I said, "any death but that of the pit!" Fool! 
might I not have known that into the pit it was the object of the burn- 
ing iron to urge me ? Could I resist its glow ? or if even that, could 
I withstand its pressure? And now, flatter and flatter grew the 
lozenge, with a rapidity that left me no time for contemplation. Its 
centre, and of course, its greatest width, came just over the yawning 
gulf. I shrank back — but the closing walls pressed me resistlessly 
onward. At length for my seared and writhing body there was no 
longer an inch of foothold on the firm floor of the prison. I struggled 
no more, but the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, long, and 
final scream of despair. I felt that I tottered upon the brink — I 
averted my eyes — 

There was a discordant hum of human voices! There was a 
loud blast as of many trumpets! There was a harsh grating as of a 
thousand thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An outstretched 
arm caught my own as I fell, fainting, into the abyss. It was that 
of General Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. The 
Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies. 

THE PURLOINED LETTER 

Nil sapientiae odiosius acumine nimio. 

Seneca. 

At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 
18 — , I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meer- 
schaum, in company with my friend, C. Auguste Dupin, in his little 
back library, or book-closet, au troisiime, No. 33, Rue Dunot, Fau- 
bourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a pro- 
found silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed 
intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke 
that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber. For myself, however, 
I was mentally discussing certain topics which had formed matter 
for conversation between us at an earlier period of the evening; I 
mean the affair of the Rue Morgue, and the mystery attending the 
murder of Marie Roget. I looked upon it, therefore, as something of 
a coincidence, when the door of our apartment was thrown open and 

admitted our old acquaintance, Monsieur G , the Prefect of the 

Parisian police. 



328 AMERICAN PROSE 



We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much 
of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we 
had not seen him for several years. We had been sitting in the dark, 
and Dupin now arose for the purpose of lighting a lamp, but sat down 
again without doing so, upon G.'s saying that he had called to consult 
us, or rather to ask the opinion of my friend, about some official 
business which had occasioned a great deal of trouble. 

"If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he 
forebore to enkindle the wick, "we shall examine it to better purpose 
in the dark." 

"That is another of your odd notions, " said the Prefect, who had 
a fashion of calling every thing "odd" that was beyond his compre- 
hension, and thus lived amid an absolute legion of "oddities." 

"Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visiter with a pipe, 
and rolled towards him a comfortable chair. 

"And what is the difficulty now?" I asked. " Nothing more in 
the assassination way, I hope?" 

"Oh, no; nothing of that nature. The fact is, the business is 
very simple indeed, and I make no doubt that we can manage it 
sufficiently well ourselves; but then I thought Dupin would like to 
hear the details of it, because it is so excessively odd." 

"Simple and odd," said Dupin. 

" Why, yes ; and not exactly that, either. The fact is, we have all 
been a good deal puzzled because the affair is so simple, and yet 
baffles us altogether." 

"Perhaps it is the very simplicity of the thing which puts you 
at fault," said my friend. 

"What nonsense you do talk!" replied the Prefect, laughing 
heartily. 

"Perhaps the mystery is a little too plain," said Dupin. 

"Oh, good heavens! who ever heard of such an idea ?" 

"A little too self-evident." 

"Ha! ha! ha! — ha! ha! ha! — ho! ho! ho!" roared our visiter, 
profoundly amused, "oh, Dupin, you will be the death of me yet!" 

"And what, after all, is the matter on hand ? " I asked. 

"Why, I will tell you," replied the Prefect, as he gave a long, 
steady, and contemplative puff, and settled himself in his chair. 
"I will tell you in a few words; but, before I begin, let me caution 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 329 



you that this is an affair demanding the greatest secrecy, and that I 
should most probably lose the position I now hold, were it known that 
I confided it to any one." 

"Proceed," said I. 

"Or not," said Dupin. 

"Well, then; I have received personal information, from a very 
high quarter, that a certain document of the last importance, has been 
purloined from the royal apartments. The individual who purloined 
it is known; this beyond a doubt; he was seen to take it. It is 
known, also, that it still remains in his possession." 

"How is this known?" asked Dupin. 

"It is clearly inferred," replied the Prefect, "from the nature of 
the document, and from the non-appearance of certain results which 
would at once arise from its passing out of the robber's possession; — 
that is to say, from his employing it as he must design in the end to 
employ it." 

"Be a little more explicit," I said. 

"Well, I may venture so far as to say that the paper gives its 
holder a certain power in a certain quarter where such power is 
immensely valuable." The Prefect was fond of the cant of diplo- 
macy. 

"Still I do not quite understand," said Dupin. 

"No? Well; the disclosure of the document to a third person, 
who shall be nameless, would bring in question the honor of a person- 
age of most exalted station; and this fact gives the holder of the docu- 
ment an ascendancy over the illustrious personage whose honor and 
peace are so jeopardized." 

"But this ascendancy," I interposed, "would depend upon the 
robber's knowledge of the loser's knowledge of the robber. Who 
would dare — " 

"The thief," said G., "is the Minister D , who dares all 

things, those unbecoming as well as those becoming a man. The 
method of the theft was not less ingenious than bold. The document 
in question — a letter, to be frank — had been received by the personage 
robbed while alone in the royal boudoir. During its perusal she was 
suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the other exalted personage 
from whom especially it was her wish to conceal it. After a hurried 
and vain endeavor to thrust it in a drawer, she was forced to place it, 



330 AMERICAN PROSE 



open as it was, upon a table. The address, however, was uppermost, 
and, the contents thus unexposed, the letter escaped notice. At 

this juncture enters the Minister D . His lynx eye immediately 

perceives the paper, recognises the handwriting of the address, 
observes the confusion of the personage addressed, and fathoms 
her secret. After some business transactions, hurried through in his 
ordinary manner, he produces a letter somewhat similar to the one 
in question, opens it, pretends to read it, and then places it in close 
juxtaposition to the other. Again he converses, for some fifteen 
minutes, upon the public affairs. At length, in taking leave, he takes 
also from the table the letter to which he had no claim. Its rightful 
owner saw, but, of course, dared not call attention to the act, in the 
presence of the third personage who stood at her elbow. The min- 
ister decamped; leaving his own letter — one of no importance — upon 
the table." 

"Here, then," said Dupin to me, "you have precisely what you 
demand to make the ascendancy complete — the robber's knowledge 
of the loser's knowledge of the robber." 

"Yes," replied the Prefect; "and the power thus attained has, 
for some months past, been wielded, for political purposes, to a very 
dangerous extent. The personage robbed is more thoroughly con- 
vinced, every day, of the necessity of reclaiming her letter. But this, 
of course, cannot be done openly. In fine, driven to despair, she has 
committed the matter to me." 

"Than whom," said Dupin, amid a perfect whirlwind of smoke, 
"no more sagacious agent could, I suppose, be desired, or even 
imagined." 

"You flatter me," replied the Prefect; "but it is possible that 
some such opinion may have been entertained." 

"It is clear," said I, "as you observe, that the letter is still in 
possession of the minister; since it is this possession, and not any 
employment of the letter, which bestows the power. With the em- 
ployment the power departs." 

"True," said G.; "and upon this conviction I proceeded. My 
first care was to make thorough search of the minister's hotel; and 
here my chief embarrassment lay in the necessity of searching with- 
out his knowledge. Beyond all things, I have been warned of the 
danger which would result from giving him reason to suspect our 
design." 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 331 



"But," said I, "you are quite aufait in these investigations. The 
Parisian police have done this thing often before." 

"O yes; and for this reason I did not despair. The habits of the 
minister gave me, too, a great advantage. He is frequently absent 
from home all night. His servants are by no means numerous. 
They sleep at a distance from their master's apartment, and, being 
chiefly Neapolitans, are readily made drunk. I have keys, as you 
know, with which I can open any chamber or cabinet in Paris. For 
three months a night has not passed, during the greater part of which 

I have not been engaged, personally, *in ransacking the D 

Hotel. My honor is interested, and, to mention a great secret, the 
reward is enormous. So I did not abandon the search until I had 
become fully satisfied that the thief is a more astute man than myself. 
I fancy that I have investigated every nook and corner of the premises 
in which it is possible that the paper can be concealed." 

"But is it not possible," I suggested, "that although the letter 
may be in possession of the minister, as it unquestionably is, he may 
have concealed it elsewhere than upon his own premises?" 

"This is barely possible," said Dupin. "The present peculiar 
condition of affairs at court, and especially of those intrigues in which 
D is known to be involved, would render the instant avail- 
ability of the document — its susceptibility of being produced at a 
moment's notice — a point of nearly equal importance with its pos-^ 
session." 

"Its susceptibility of being produced?" said I. 

"That is to say, of being destroyed," said Dupin. 

"True," I observed; " the paper is clearly then upon the premises. 
As for its being upon the person of the minister, we may consider 
that as out of the question." 

"Entirely," said the Prefect. "He has been twice waylaid, as 
if by footpads, and his person rigorously searched under my own 
inspection." 

"You might have spared yourself this trouble," said Dupin. 

"D , I presume, is not altogether a fool, and, if not, must have 

anticipated these waylayings, as a matter of course." 

"Not altogether a fool," said G., "but then he ; s a poet, which 1 
take to be only one remove from a fool." 

"True," said Dupin, after a long and thoughtful whiff from his 
meerschaum, "although I have been guilty of certain doggrel myself." 



332 AMERICAN PROSE 



"Suppose you detail," said I, "the particulars of your search." 

"Why the fact is, we took our time, and we searched every where. 
I have had long experience in these affairs. I took the entire building, 
room by room; devoting the nights of a whole week to each. We 
examined, first, the furniture of each apartment. We opened every 
possible drawer; and I presume you know that, to a properly trained 
police agent, such a thing as a secret drawer is impossible. Any 
man is a dolt who permits a ' secret ' drawer to escape him in a search 
of this kind. The thing is so plain. There is a certain amount of 
bulk — of space — to be accounted for in every cabinet. Then we 
have accurate rules. The fiftieth part of a line could not escape us. 
After the cabinets we took the chairs. The cushions we probed with 
the fine long needles you have seen me employ. From the tables we 
removed the tops." 

"Why so?" 

" Sometimes the top of a table, or other similarly arranged piece 
of furniture, is removed by the person wishing to conceal an article; 
then the leg is excavated, the article deposited within the cavity, and 
the top replaced. The bottoms and tops of bed-posts are employed 
in the same way." 

"But could not the cavity be detected by sounding ?" I asked. 

"By no means, if, when the article is deposited, a sufficient 
wadding of cotton be placed around it. Besides, in our case, we were 
obliged to proceed without noise." 

"But you could not have removed — you could not have taken to 
pieces all articles of furniture in which it would have been possible 
to make a deposit in the manner you mention. A letter may be 
compressed into a thin spiral roll, not differing much in shape or 
bulk from a large knitting-needle, and in this form it might be inserted 
into the rung of a chair, for example. You did not take to pieces all 
the chairs?" 

"Certainly not; but we did better — we examined the rungs of 
every chair in the hotel, and, indeed, the jointings of every description 
of furniture, by the aid of a most powerful microscope. Had there 
been any traces of recent disturbance we should not have failed to 
detect it instantly. A single grain of gimlet-dust, for example, would 
have been as obvious as an apple. Any disorder in the glueing — any 
unusual gaping in the joints — would have sufficed to insure detection." 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 333 



"I presume you looked to the mirrors, between the boards and 
the plates, and you probed the beds and the bed-clothes, as well as 
the curtains and carpets." 

"That of course; and when we had absolutely completed every 
particle of the furniture in this way, then we examined the house 
itself. We divided its entire surface into compartments, which we 
numbered, so that none might be missed; then we scrutinized 
each individual square inch throughout the premises, including 
the two houses immediately adjoining, with the microscope, as 
before." 

"The two houses adjoining!" I exclaimed; "you must have had 
a great deal of trouble." 

"We had; but the reward offered is prodigious." 

"You include the grounds about the houses ?" 

"All the grounds are paved with brick. They gave us compara- 
tively little trouble. We examined the moss between the bricks, and 
found it undisturbed." 

"You looked among D 's papers, of course, and into the 

books of the library?" 

"Certainly; we opened every package and parcel; we not only 
opened every book, but we turned over every leaf in each volume, 
not contenting ourselves with a mere shake, according to the fashion 
of some of our police officers. We also measured the thickness of 
every hook-cover, with the most accurate admeasurement, and applied 
to each the most jealous scrutiny of the microscope. Had any of the 
bindings been recently meddled with, it would have been utterly 
impossible that the fact should have escaped observation. Some five 
or six volumes, just from the hands of the binder, we carefully probed, 
longitudinally, with the needles." 

"You explored the floors beneath the carpets?" 

"Beyond doubt. We removed every carpet, and examined the 
boards with the microscope." 

"And the paper on the walls ?" 

"Yes." 

"You looked into the cellars?" 

"We did." 

"Then," I said, "you have been making a miscalculation, and 
the letter is not upon the premises, as you suppose." 



334 AMERICAN PROSE 



"I fear you are right there," said the Prefect. "And now, 
Dupin, what would you advise me to do ? " 

"To make a thorough re-search of the premises." 

"That is absolutely needless," replied G . "I am not 

more sure that I breathe than I am that the letter is not at the hotel." 

"I have no better advice to give you," said Dupin. "You have, 
of course, an accurate description of the letter?" 

"Oh yes!" — And here the Prefect, producing a memorandum- 
book, proceeded to read aloud a minute account of the internal, and 
especially of the external appearance of the missing document. Soon 
after finishing the perusal of this description, he took his departure, 
more entirely depressed in spirits than I had ever known the good 
gentleman before. 

In about a month afterwards he paid us another visit, and found 
us occupied very nearly as before. He took a pipe and a chair and 
entered into some ordinary conversation. At length I said, — 

"Well, but G , what of the purloined letter ? I presume you 

have at last made up your mind that there is no such thing as over- 
reaching the Minister?" 

" Confound him, say I — yes; I made the re-examination, however, 
as Dupin suggested; but it was all labor lost, as I knew it would be." 

"How much was the reward offered, did you say ?" asked Dupin. 

"Why, a very great deal — a very liberal reward — I don't like to 
say how much, precisely; but one thing I will say, that I wouldn't 
mind giving my individual check for fifty thousand francs to any one 
who could obtain me that letter. The fact is, it is becoming of more 
and more importance every day; and the reward has been lately 
doubled. If it were trebled, however, I could do no more than I have 
done." 

"Why, yes," said Dupin, drawlingly, between the whiffs of his 
meerschaum, "I really — think, G— — , you have not exerted yourself 
— to the utmost in this matter. You might — do a little more, I 
think, eh?" 

"How? — in what way?" 

"Why — puff, puff — you might — puff, puff — employ counsel in 
the matter, eh ? — puff , puff, puff. Do you remember the story they 
tell of Abernethy?" 

"No; hang Abernethy!" 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 335 



"To be sure! hang him and welcome. But, once upon a time, 
a certain rich miser conceived the design of spunging upon this 
Abernethy for a medical opinion. Getting up, for this purpose, an 
ordinary conversation in a private company, he insinuated his case 
to the physician, as that of an imaginary individual. 

'"We will suppose,' said the miser, 'that his symptoms are such 
and such; now, doctor, what would you have directed him to take?' 

"'Take!' said Abernethy, 'why, take advice, to be sure."' 

"But," said the Prefect, a little discomposed, "/ am perfectly 
willing to take advice, and to pay for it. I would really give fifty 
thousand francs to any one who would aid me in the matter." 

"In that case," replied Dupin, opening a drawer, and producing 
a check-book, "you may as well fill me up a check for the amount 
mentioned. When you have signed it, I will hand you the letter." 

I was astounded. The Prefect appeared absolutely thunder- 
stricken. For some minutes he remained speechless and motionless, 
looking incredulously at my friend with open mouth, and eyes that 
seemed starting from their sockets; then, apparently recovering 
himself in some measure, he seized a pen, and, after several pauses 
and vacant stares, finally filled up and signed a check for fifty thou- 
sand francs, and handed it across the table to Dupin. The latter 
examined it carefully and deposited it in his pocket-book; then, 
unlocking an escritoire, took thence a letter and gave it to the Prefect. 
This functionary grasped it in a perfect agony of joy, opened it with 
a trembling hand, cast a rapid glance at its contents, and then, 
scrambling and struggling to the door, rushed at length unceremoni- 
ously from the room and from the house, without having uttered a 
syllable since Dupin had requested him to fill up the check. 

When he had gone, my friend entered into some explanations. 

"The Parisian police," he said, "are exceedingly able in their 
way. They are persevering, ingenious, cunning, and thoroughly 
versed in the knowledge which their duties seem chiefly to demand. 

Thus, when G detailed to us his mode of searching the premises 

at the Hotel D , I felt entire confidence in his having made a satis- 
factory investigation — so far as his labors extended." 

"So far as his labors extended?" said I. 

"Yes," said Dupin. "The measures adopted were not only 
the best of their kind, but carried out to absolute perfection. Had 



336 AMERICAN PROSE 



the letter been deposited within the range of their search, these fellows 
would, beyond a question, have found it." 

I merely laughed — but he seemed quite serious in all that he said. 

"The measures, then," he continued, "were good in their kind, 
and well executed; their defect lay in their being inapplicable to the 
case, and to the man. A certain set of highly ingenious resources 
are, with the Prefect, a sort of Procrustean bed, to which he forcibly 
adapts his designs. But he perpetually errs by being too deep or 
too shallow, for the matter in hand; and many a schoolboy is a better 
reasoner than he. I knew one about eight years of age, whose success 
at guessing in the game of ' even and odd ' attracted universal admira- 
tion. This game is simple, and is played with marbles. One player 
holds in his hand a number of these toys, and demands of another 
whether that number is even or odd. If the guess is right, the guesser 
wins one; if wrong, he loses one. The boy to whom I allude won all 
the marbles of the school. Of course he had some principle of guess- 
ing; and this lay in mere observation and admeasurement of the 
astuteness of his opponents. For example, an arrant simpleton is his 
opponent, and, holding up his closed hand, asks, 'are they even or 
odd?' Our schoolboy replies, 'odd,' and loses; but upon the second 
trial he wins, for he then says to himself, 'The simpleton had them 
even upon the first trial, and his amount of cunning is just sufficient 
to make him have them odd upon the second; I will therefore guess 
odd;' — he guesses odd, and wins. Now, with a simpleton a degree 
above the first, he would have reasoned thus: 'This fellow finds that 
in the first instance I guessed odd, and, in the second, he will propose 
to himself, upon the first impulse, a simple variation from even to 
odd, as did the first simpleton; but then a second thought will sug- 
gest that this is too simple a variation, and finally he will decide upon 
putting it even as before. I will therefore guess even;' — he guesses 
even, and wins. Now this mode of reasoning in the schoolboy, whom 
his fellows termed 'lucky,' — what, in its last analysis, is it?" 

"It is merely," I said, "an identification of the reasoner's intellect 
with that of his opponent." 

"It is," said Dupin; "and, upon inquiring of the boy by what 
means he effected the thorough identification in which his success 
consisted, I received answer as follows: 'When I wish to find out how 
wise, or how stupid, or how good, or how wicked is any one, or what 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 337 



are his thoughts at the moment, I fashion the expression of my face, 
as accurately as possible, in accordance with the expression of his, and 
then wait to see what thoughts or sentiments arise in my mind or 
heart, as if to match or correspond with the expression.' This 
response of the schoolboy lies at the bottom of all the spurious pro- 
fundity which has been attributed to Rochefoucault, to La Bougive, 
to Machiavelli, and to Campanella." 

"And the identification," I said, "of the reasoner's intellect with 
that of his opponent, depends, if I understand you aright, upon the 
accuracy with which the opponent's intellect is admeasured." 

"For its practical value it depends upon this," replied Dupin; 
"and the Prefect and his cohort fail so frequently, first, by default 
of this identification, and, secondly, by ill-admeasurement, or rather 
through non-admeasurement, of the intellect with which they are 
engaged. They consider only their own ideas of ingenuity; and, in 
searching for anything hidden, advert only to the modes in which they 
would have hidden it. They are right in this much — that their own 
ingenuity is a faithful representative of that of the mass; but when the 
cunning of the individual felon is diverse in character from their own, 
the felon foils them, of course. This always happens when it is above 
their own, and very usually when it is below. They have no variation 
of principle in their investigations; at best, when urged by some 
unusual emergency — by some extraordinary reward — they extend or 
exaggerate their old modes of practice, without touching their prin- 
ciples. What, for example, in this case of D , has been done to 

vary the principle of action ? What is all this boring, and probing, 
and sounding, and scrutinizing with the microscope, and dividing the 
surface of the building into registered square inches — what is it all 
but an exaggeration of the application of the one principle or set of 
principles of search, which are based upon the one set of notions 
regarding human ingenuity, to which the Prefect, in the long routine 
of his duty, has been accustomed ? Do you not see he has taken it 
for granted that all men proceed to conceal a letter, — not exactly 
in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair-leg — but, at least, in some out-of-the- 
way hole or corner suggested by the same tenor of thought which 
would urge a man to secrete a letter in a gimlet-hole bored in a chair- 
leg? And do you not see also, that such recherches nooks for con- 
cealment are adapted only for ordinary occasions, and would be 



338 AMERICAN PROSE 



adopted only by ordinary intellects ? for, in all cases of concealment, 
a disposal of the article concealed — a disposal of it in this rechercM 
manner, — is, in the very first instance, presumable and presumed; 
and thus its discovery depends, not at all upon the acumen, but 
altogether upon the mere care, patience, and determination of the 
seekers; and where the case is of importance — or, what amounts to 
the same thing in the policial eyes, when the reward is of magnitude, — 
the qualities in question have never been known to fail. You will 
now understand what I meant in suggesting that, had the purloined 
letter been hidden any where within the limits of the Prefect's 
examination — in other words, had the principle of its concealment 
been comprehended within the principles of the Prefect — its discovery 
would have been a matter altogether beyond question. This func- 
tionary, however, has been thoroughly mystified; and the remote 
source of his defeat lies in the supposition that the Minister is a fool, 
because he has acquired renown as a poet. All fools are poets; this 
the Prefect feels; and he is merely guilty of a non distributio medii 
in thence inferring that all poets are fools." 

"But is this really the poet ? " I asked. "There are two brothers, 
I know; and both have attained reputation in letters. The Minister 
I believe has written learnedly on the Differential Calculus. He is a ' 
mathematician, and no poet." 

"You are mistaken; I know him well; he is both. As poet and 
mathematician, he would reason well; as mere mathematician he 
could not have reasoned at all, and thus would have been at the mercy 
of the Prefect." 

"You surprise me," I said, "by these opinions, which have been 
contradicted by the voice of the world. You do not mean to set at 
naught the well-digested idea of centuries. The mathematical reason 
has long been regarded as the reason par excellence." 

"'II y a a parier," replied Dupin, quoting from Chamfort, "'que 
toute idee publique, toute convention reque, est une sottise, car elle a con- 
venue au plus grand nombre.' The mathematicians, I grant you, 
have done their best to promulgate the popular error to which you 
allude, and which is none the less an error for its promulgation as 
truth. With an art worthy a better cause, for example, they have 
insinuated the term 'analysis' into application to algebra. The 
French are the originators of this particular deception; but if a term 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 339 

is of any importance — if words derive any value from applicability — 
then ' analysis ' conveys ' algebra ' about as much as, in Latin, ' ambitus' 
implies 'ambition,' 'religio' 'religion,' or 'homines honesti,' a set of 
honorable men." 

"You have a quarrel on hand, I see," said I, "with some of the 
algebraists of Paris; but proceed." 

"I dispute the availability, and thus the value, of that reason 
which is cultivated in any especial form other than the abstractly 
logical. I dispute, in particular, the reason educed by mathematical 
study. The mathematics are the science of form and quantity; 
mathematical reasoning is merely logic applied to observation upon 
form and quantity. The great error lies in supposing that even the 
truths of what is called pure algebra, are abstract or general truths. 
And this error is so egregious that I am confounded at the universality 
with which it has been received. Mathematical axioms are not 
axioms of general truth. What is true of relation — of form and quan- 
tity — is often grossly false in regard to morals, for example. In this 
latter science it is very usually untrue that the aggregated parts are 
equal to the whole. In chemistry also the axiom fails. In the con- 
sideration of motive it fails; for two motives, each of a given value, 
have not, necessarily, a value when united, equal to the sum of their 
values apart. There are numerous other mathematical truths which 
are only truths within the limits of relation. But the mathematician 
argues, from his finite truths, through habit, as if they were of an 
absolutely general applicability — as the world indeed imagines them 
to be. Bryant, in his very learned 'Mythology,' mentions an analo- 
gous source of error, when he says that ' although the Pagan fables are 
not believed, yet we forget ourselves continually, and make inferences 
from them as existing realities.' With the algebraists, however, who 
are Pagans themselves, the 'Pagan fables' are believed, and the infer- 
ences are made, not so much through lapse of memory, as through an 
unaccountable addling of the brains. In short, I never yet en- 
countered the mere mathematician who could be trusted out of 
equal roots, or one who did not clandestinely hold it as a point of his 
faith that x 2 -\-px was absolutely and unconditionally equal to q. 
Say to one of these gentlemen, by way of experiment, if you please, 
that you believe occasions may occur where x 2 -\-px is not altogether 
equal to q, and, having made him understand what you mean, get 



340 AMERICAN PROSE 



out of his reach as speedily as convenient, for, beyond doubt, he will 
endeavor to knock you down. 

"I mean to say," continued Dupin, while I merely laughed at his 
last observations, "that if the Minister had been no more than a 
mathematician, the Prefect would have been under no necessity of 
giving me this check. I knew him, however, as both mathematician 
and poet; and my measures were adapted to his capacity, with refer- 
ence to the circumstances by which he was surrounded. I knew 
him as courtier, too, and as a bold intriguant. Such a man, I con- 
sidered, could not fail to be aware of the ordinary policial modes 
of action. He could not have failed to anticipate — and events have 
proved that he did not fail to anticipate — the waylayings to which 
he was subjected. He must have foreseen, I reflected, the secret 
investigations of his premises. His frequent absences from home 
at night, which were hailed by the Prefect as certain aids to his suc- 
cess, I regarded only as ruses, to afford opportunity for thorough 
search to the police, and thus the sooner to impress them with the 

conviction to which G , in fact, did finally arrive — the conviction 

that the letter was not upon the premises. I felt, also, that the whole 
train of thought, which I was at some pains in detailing to you just 
now, concerning the invariable principle of policial action in searches 
for articles concealed — I felt that this whole train of thought would 
necessarily pass through the mind of the Minister. It would impera- 
tively lead him to despise all the ordinary nooks of concealment. He 
could not, I reflected, be so weak as not to see that the most intricate 
and remote recess of his hotel would be as open as his commonest 
closets to the eyes, to the probes, to the gimlets, and to the micro- 
scopes of the Prefect. I saw, in fine, that he would be driven, as 
a matter of course, to simplicity, if not deliberately induced to it as 
a matter of choice. You will remember, perhaps, how desperately 
the Prefect laughed when I suggested, upon our first interview, that 
it was just possible this mystery troubled him so much on account of 
its being so very self-evident." 

" Yes," said I, " I remember his merriment well. I really thought 
he would have fallen into convulsions." 

"The material world," continued Dupin, "abounds with very 
strict analogies to the immaterial; and thus some color of truth has 
been given to the rhetorical dogma, that metaphor, or simile, may be 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 341 



made to strengthen an argument, as well as to embellish a descrip- 
tion. The principle of the vis inertia, for example, seems to be identi- 
cal in physics and metaphysics. It is not more true in the former, 
that a large body is with more difficulty set in motion than a smaller 
one, and that its subsequent momentum is commensurate with this 
difficulty, than it is, in the latter, that intellects of the vaster capacity, 
while more forcible, more constant, and more eventful in their 
movements than those of inferior grade, are yet the less readily 
moved, and more embarrassed and full of hesitation in the first 
few steps of their progress. Again: have you ever noticed which 
of the street signs, over the shop-doors, are the most attractive of 
attention?" 

"I have never given the matter a thought," I said. 

"There is a game of puzzles," he resumed, "which is played upon 
a map. One party playing requires another to find a given word — 
the name of town, river, state or empire — any word, in short, upon 
the motley and perplexed surface of the chart. A novice in the game 
generally seeks to embarrass his opponents by giving them the most 
minutely lettered names; but the adept selects such words as stretch, 
in large characters, from one end of the chart to the other. These, 
like the over-largely lettered signs and placards of the street, escape 
observation by dint of being excessively obvious; and here the physi- 
cal oversight is precisely analogous with the moral inapprehension 
by which the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considerations 
which are too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident. But this 
is a point, it appears, somewhat above or beneath the understanding 
of the Prefect. He never once thought it probable, or possible, that 
the Minister had deposited the letter immediately beneath the nose 
of the whole world, by way of best preventing any portion of that 
world from perceiving it. 

"But the more I reflected upon the daring, dashing, and dis- 
criminating ingenuity of D ; upon the fact that the document 

must always have been at hand, if he intended to use it to good pur- 
pose; and upon the decisive evidence, obtained by the Prefect, 
that it was not hidden within the limits of that dignitary's ordinary 
search — the more satisfied I became that, to conceal this letter, the 
minister had resorted to the comprehensive and sagacious expedient 
of not attempting to conceal it at all. 



342 AMERICAN PROSE 



"Full of these ideas, I prepared myself with a pair of green 
spectacles, and called one fine morning, quite by accident, at the 

Ministerial hotel. I found D at home, yawning, lounging, and 

dawdling, as usual, and pretending to be in the last extremity of 
ennui. He is, perhaps, the most really energetic human being now 
alive — but that is only when nobody sees him. 

"To be even with him, I complained of my weak eyes, and 
lamented the necessity of the spectacles, under cover of which I 
cautiously and thoroughly surveyed the whole apartment, while 
seemingly intent only upon the conversation of my host. 

"I paid especial attention to a large writing-table near which he 
sat, and upon which lay confusedly, some miscellaneous letters and 
other papers, with one or two musical instruments and a few books. 
Here, however, after a long and very deliberate scrutiny, I saw nothing 
to excite particular suspicion. 

"At length my eyes, in going the circuit of the room, fell upon a 
trumpery fillagree card-rack of pasteboard, that hung dangling by a 
dirty blue ribbon, from a little brass knob just beneath the middle 
of the mantel-piece. In this rack, which had three or four compart- 
ments, were five or six visiting cards and a solitary letter. This last 
was much soiled and crumpled. It was torn nearly in two, across 
the middle — as if a design, in the first instance, to tear it entirely 
up as worthless, had been altered, or stayed, in the second. It had 

a large black seal, bearing the D cipher very conspicuously, and 

was addressed, in a diminutive female hand, to D , the minister, 

himself. It was thrust carelessly, and even, as it seemed, contemptu- 
ously, into one of the uppermost divisions of the rack. 

"No sooner had I glanced at this letter, than I concluded it to 
be that of which I was in search. To be sure, it was, to all appearance, 
radically different from the one of which the Prefect had read us so 
minute a description. Here the seal was large and black, with the 

D cipher; there it was small and red, with the ducal arms of the 

S family. Here the address, to the Minister, was diminutive 

and feminine; there the superscription, to a certain royal personage, 
was markedly bold and decided; the size alone formed a point of 
correspondence. But, then, the radicalness of these differences, 
which was excessive; the dirt, the soiled and torn condition of the 
paper, so inconsistent with the true methodical habits of D , and 



EDGAR ALLAN POE 343 



so suggestive of a design to delude the beholder into an idea of the 
worthlessness of the document; these things, together with the hyper- 
obtrusive situation of this document, full in the view of every visiter, 
and thus exactly in accordance with the conclusions to which I had 
previously arrived; these things, I say, were strongly corroborative 
of suspicion, in one who came with the intention to suspect. 

"I protracted my visit as long as possible, and, while I main- 
tained a most animated discussion with the Minister, upon a topic 
which I knew well had never failed to interest and excite him, I 
kept my attention really riveted upon the letter. In this examina- 
tion, I committed to memory its external appearance and arrangement 
in the rack; and also fell, at length, upon a discovery which set at 
rest whatever trivial doubt I might have entertained. In scrutinizing 
the edges of the paper, I observed them to be more chafed than seemed 
necessary. They presented the broken appearance which is mani- 
fested when a stiff paper, having been once folded and pressed with a 
folder, is refolded in a reversed direction, in the same creases or edges 
which had formed the original fold. This discovery was sufficient. 
It was clear to me that the letter had been turned, as a glove, inside 
out, re-directed, and re-sealed. I bade the Minister good morning, 
and took my departure at once, leaving a gold snuff-box upon the 
table. 

"The next morning I called for the snuff-box, when we resumed, 
quite eagerly, the conversation of the preceding day. While thus 
engaged, however, a loud report, as if of a pistol, was heard imme- 
diately beneath the windows of the hotel, and was succeeded by a 

series of fearful screams, and the shoutings of a terrified mob. D 

rushed to a casement, threw it open, and looked out. In the mean- 
time, I stepped to the card-rack, took the letter, put it in my pocket, 
and replaced it by a facsimile (so far as regards externals) which I 

had carefully prepared at my lodgings — imitating the D cipher, 

very readily, by means of a seal formed of bread. 

"The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic 
behavior of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a crowd 
of women and children. It proved, however, to have been without 
ball, and the fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunk- 
ard. When he had gone, D came from the window, whither I 

had followed him immediately upon securing the object in view. 



344 AMERICAN PROSE 



Soon afterwards I bade him farewell. The pretended lunatic was a 
man in my own pay." 

"But what purpose had you/' I asked, "in replacing the letter 
by a. facsimile? Would it not have been better, at the first visit, 
to have seized it openly, and departed?" 

"D ," replied Dupin, "is a desperate man, and a man of 

nerve. His hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his 
interests. Had I made the wild attempt you suggest, I might 
never have left the Ministerial presence alive. The good people of 
Paris might have heard of me no more. But I had an object apart 
from these considerations. You know my political prepossessions. 
In this matter, I act as a partisan of the lady concerned. For 
eighteen months the Minister has had her in his power. She has now 
him in hers — since, being unaware that the letter is not in his posses- 
sion, he will proceed with his exactions as if it was. Thus will he 
inevitably commit himself, at once, to his political destruction. 
His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than awkward. It 
is all very well to talk about the facilis descensus Averni; but in all 
kinds of climbing, as Catalani said of singing, it is far more easy to 
get up than to come down. In the present instance I have no sym- 
pathy — at least no pity — for him who descends. He is that monstrum 
horrendum, an unprincipled man of genius. I confess, however, 
that I should like very well to know the precise character of his 
thoughts, when, being defied by her whom the Prefect terms 'a certain 
personage,' he is reduced to opening the letter which I left for him 
in the card-rack." 

"How? did you put any thing particular in it?" 

"Why — it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior 

blank — that would have been insulting. D , at Vienna once, 

did me an evil turn, which I told him, quite good-humoredly, that 
I should remember. So, as I knew he would feel some curiosity in 
regard to the identity of the person who had outwitted him, I thought 
it a pity not to give him a clew. He is well acquainted with my MS., 
and I just copied into the middle of the blank sheet the words — 

Un dessein si funeste, 

S'il n'est digne d'Atree, est digne de Thyeste. 

They are to be found in Crebillon's 'Atree.'" 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 345 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

THE AMERICAN SCHOLAR 

Mr. President and Gentlemen, 

I greet you on the recommencement of our literary year. Our 
anniversary is one of hope, and, perhaps, not enough of labor. We 
do not meet for games of strength or skill, for the recitation of his- 
tories, tragedies, and odes, like the ancient Greeks; for parliaments 
of love and poesy, like the Troubadours; nor for the advancement of 
science, like our contemporaries in the British and European capitals. 
Thus far, our holiday has been simply a friendly sign of the survival 
of the love of letters amongst a people too busy to give to letters any 
more. As such, it is precious as the sign of an indestructible instinct. 
Perhaps the time is already come, when it ought to be, and will be, 
something else; when the sluggard intellect of this continent will 
look from under its iron lids, and fill the postponed expectation of the 
world with something better than the exertions of mechanical skill. 
Our day of dependence, our long apprenticeship to the learning of 
other lands, draws to a close. The millions that around us are rush- 
ing into life, cannot always be fed on the sere remains of foreign har- 
vests. Events, actions arise, that must be sung, that will sing 
themselves. Who can doubt, that poetry will revive and lead in a 
new age, as the star in the constellation Harp, which now flames in 
our zenith, astronomers announce, shall one day be the pole-star for 
a thousand years ? 

In this hope, I accept the topic which not only usage, but the 
nature of our association, seem to prescribe to this day, — the Ameri- 
can Scholar. Year by year, we come up hither to read one more 
chapter of his biography. Let us inquire what light new days and 
events have thrown on his character, and his hopes. 

It is one of those fables, which, out of an unknown antiquity, con- 
vey an unlooked-for wisdom, that the gods, in the beginning, divided 
Man into men, that he might be more helpful to himself; just as the 
hand was divided into fingers, the better to answer its end. 

The old fable covers a doctrine ever new and sublime; that 
there is One Man, — present to all particular men only partially, or 
through one faculty; and that you must take the whole society to 



346 AMERICAN PROSE 



find the whole man. Man is not a farmer, or a professor, or an engi- 
neer, but he is all. Man is priest, and scholar, and statesman, and 
producer, and soldier. In the divided or social state, these functions 
are parcelled out to individuals, each of whom aims to do his stint 
of the joint work, whilst each other performs his. The fable implies, 
that the individual, to possess himself, must sometimes return from 
his own labor to embrace all the other laborers. But, unfortunately, 
this original unit, this fountain of power, has been so distributed to 
multitudes, has been so minutely subdivided and peddled out, that 
it is spilled into drops, and cannot be gathered. The state of society 
is one in which the members have suffered amputation from the 
trunk, and strut about so many walking monsters, — a good finger, 
a neck, a stomach, an elbow, but never a man. 

Man is thus metamorphosed into a thing, into many things. 
The planter, who is Man sent out into the field to gather food, is 
seldom cheered by any idea of the true dignity of his ministry. He 
sees his bushel and his cart, and nothing beyond, and sinks into the 
farmer, instead of Man on the farm. The tradesman scarcely ever 
gives an ideal worth to his work, but is ridden by the routine of his 
craft, and the soul is subject to dollars. The priest becomes a form; 
the attorney, a statute-book; the mechanic, a machine; the sailor, 
a rope of the ship. 

In this distribution of functions, the scholar is the delegated 
intellect. In the right state, he is Man Thinking. In the degener- 
ate state, when the victim of society, he tends to become a mere 
thinker, or, still worse, the parrot of other men's thinking. 

In this view of him, as Man Thinking, the theory of his office 
is contained. Him Nature solicits with all her placid, all her moni- 
tory pictures; him the past instructs; him the future invites. Is 
not, indeed, every man a student, and do not all things exist for 
the student's behoof ? And, finally, is not the true scholar the only 
true master? But the old oracle said, "All things have two 
handles: beware of the wrong one." In life, too often, the scholar 
errs with mankind and forfeits his privilege. Let us see him in 
his school, and consider him in reference to the main influences he 
receives. 

I. The first in time and the first in importance of the influences 
upon the mind is that of nature. Every day, the sun; and, after 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 347 

sunset, night and her stars. Ever the winds blow; ever the grass 
grows. Every day, men and women, conversing, beholding and 
beholden. The scholar is he of all men whom this spectacle most 
engages. He must settle its value in his mind. What is nature to 
him? There is never a beginning, there is never an end, to the 
inexplicable continuity of this web of God, but always circular power 
returning into itself. Therein it resembles his own spirit, whose 
beginning, whose ending, he never can find, — so entire, so boundless. 
Far, too, as her splendors shine, system on system shooting like rays, 
upward, downward, without centre, without circumference, — in the 
mass and in the particle, nature hastens to render account of herself 
to the mind. Classification begins. To the young mind, every 
thing is individual, stands by itself. By and by, it finds how to join 
two things, and see in them one nature; then three, then three thou- 
sand; and so, tyrannized over by its own unifying instinct, it goes 
on t}dng things together, diminishing anomalies, discovering roots 
running under ground, whereby contrary and remote things cohere, 
and flower out from one stem. It presently learns, that, since the dawn 
of history, there has been a constant accumulation and classifying of 
facts. But what is classification but the perceiving that these objects 
are not chaotic, and are not foreign, but have a law which is also a 
law of the human mind ? The astronomer discovers that geometry, 
a pure abstraction of the human mind, is the measure of planetary 
motion. The chemist finds proportions and inteUigible method 
throughout matter; and science is nothing but the finding of 
analogy, identity, in the most remote parts. The ambitious soul sits 
down before each refractory fact; one after another, reduces all 
strange constitutions, all new powers, to their class and their law, and 
goes on for ever to animate the last fibre of organization, the out- 
skirts of nature, by insight. 

Thus to him, to this school-boy under the bending dome of day, 
is suggested, that he and it proceed from one root; one is leaf and one 
is flower; relation, sympathy, stirring in every vein. And what is 
that root ? Is not that the soul of his soul ? A thought too bold, — 
a dream too wild. Yet when this spiritual light shall have revealed 
the law of more earthly natures, — when he has learned to worship 
the soul, and to see that the natural philosophy that now is, is only 
the first gropings of its gigantic hand, he shall look forward to an ever 



348 AMERICAN PROSE 



expanding knowledge as to a becoming creator. He shall see, that 
nature is the opposite of the soul, answering to it part for part. One 
is seal, and one is print. Its beauty is the beauty of his own mind. 
Its laws are the laws of his own mind. Nature then becomes to him 
the measure of his attainments. So much of nature as he is ignorant 
of, so much of his own mind does he not yet possess. And, in fine, 
the ancient precept, "Know thyself," and the modern precept, 
"Study nature," become at last one maxim. 

II. The next great influence into the spirit of the scholar, is, the 
mind of the Past, — in whatever form, whether of literature, of art, 
of institutions, that mind is inscribed. Books are the best type of 
the influence of the past, and perhaps we shall get at the truth, — 
learn the amount of this influence more conveniently, — by consider- 
ing their value alone. 

The theory of books is noble. The scholar of the first age 
received into him the world around; brooded thereon; gave it the 
new arrangement of his own mind, and uttered it again. It came into 
him, life; it went out from him, truth. It came to him, short-lived 
actions; it went out from him, immortal thoughts. It came to him, 
business; it went from him, poetry. It was dead fact; now, it is 
quick thought. It can stand, and it can go. It now endures, it now 
flies, it now inspires. Precisely in proportion to the depth of mind 
from which it issued, so high does it soar, so long does it sing. 

Or, I might say, it depends on how far the process had gone, of 
transmuting life into truth. In proportion to the completeness of 
the distillation, so will the purity and imperishableness of the product 
be. But none is quite perfect. As no air-pump can by any means 
make a perfect vacuum, so neither can any artist entirely exclude 
the conventional, the local, the perishable from his book, or write 
a book of pure thought, that shall be as efficient, in all respects, to a 
remote posterity, as to cotemporaries, or rather to the second 
age. Each age, it is found, must write its own books; or rather, each 
generation for the next succeeding. The books of an older period 
will not fit this. 

Yet hence arises a grave mischief. The sacredness which attaches 
to the act of creation, — the act of thought, — is transferred to the 
record. The poet chanting, was felt to be a divine man: henceforth 
the chant is divine also. The writer was a just and wise spirit: 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 349 

henceforward it is settled, the book is perfect; as love of the hero 
corrupts into worship of his statue. Instantly, the book becomes 
noxious: the guide is a tyrant. The sluggish and perverted mind of 
the multitude, slow to open to the incursions of Reason, having once 
so opened, having once received this book, stands upon it, and makes 
an outcry, if it is disparaged. Colleges are built on it. Books are 
written on it by thinkers, not by Man Thinking; by men of talent, 
that is, who start wrong, who set out from accepted dogmas, not 
from their own sight of principles. Meek young men grow up in 
libraries, believing it their duty to accept the views, which Cicero, 
which Locke, which Bacon, have given; forgetful that Cicero, Locke, 
and Bacon were only young men in libraries, when they wrote these 
books. 

Hence, instead of Man Thinking, we have the bookworm. 
Hence, the book-learned class, who value books, as such; not as 
related to nature and the human constitution, but as making a sort 
of Third Estate with the world and the soul. Hence the restorers of 
readings, the emendators, the bibliomaniacs of all degrees. 

Books are the best of things, well used; abused, among the worst. 
What is the right use ? What is the one end, which all means go to 
effect? They are for nothing but to inspire. I had better never 
see a book, than to be warped by its attraction clean out of my own 
orbit, and made a satellite instead of a system. The one thing in the 
world, of value, is the active soul. This every man is entitled to; 
this every man contains within him, although, in almost all men, 
obstructed, and as yet unborn. The soul active sees absolute truth; 
and utters truth, or creates. In this action, it is genius; not the 
privilege of here and there a favorite, but the sound estate of every 
man. In its essence, it is progressive. The book, the college, the 
school of art, the institution of any kind, stop with some past utter- 
ance of genius. This is good, say they, — let us hold by this. They 
pin me down. They look backward and not forward. But genius 
looks forward: the eyes of man are set in his forehead, not in his 
hindhead: man hopes: genius creates. Whatever talents may be, 
if the man create not, the pure efflux of the Deity is not his; — 
cinders and smoke there may be, but not yet flame. There are 
creative manners, there are creative actions, and creative words; 
manners, actions, words, that is, indicative of no custom or authority, 



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but springing spontaneous from the mind's own sense of good and 
fair. 

On the other part, instead of being its own seer, let it receive 
from another mind its truth, though it were in torrents of light, with- 
out periods of solitude, inquest, and self -recovery, and a fatal disserv- 
ice is done. Genius is always sufficiently the enemy of genius by 
over-influence. The literature of every nation bear[s] me witness. 
The English dramatic poets have Shakspearized now for two hundred 
years. 

Undoubtedly there is a right way of reading, so it be sternly 
subordinated. Man Thinking must not be subdued by his instru- 
ments. Books are for the scholar's idle times. When he can read 
God directly, the hour is too precious to be wasted in other men's 
transcripts of their readings. But when the intervals of darkness 
come, as come they must, — -when the sun is hid, and the stars with- 
draw their shining, — we repair to the lamps which were kindled by 
their ray, to guide our steps to the East again, where the dawn is. 
We hear, that we may speak. The Arabian proverb says, "A fig 
tree, looking on a fig tree, becometh fruitful." 

It is remarkable, the character of the pleasure we derive from the 
best books. They impress us with the conviction, that one nature 
wrote and the same reads. We read the verses of one of the great 
English poets, of Chaucer, of Marvell, of Dryden, with the most 
modern joy, — with a pleasure, I mean, which is in great part caused 
by the abstraction of all time from their verses. There is some awe 
mixed with the joy of our surprise, when this poet, who lived in some 
past world, two or three hundred years ago, says that which lies close 
to my own soul, that which I also had well nigh thought and said. 
But for the evidence thence afforded to the philosophical doctrine 
of the identity of all minds, we should suppose some preestablished 
harmony, some foresight of souls that were to be, and some prepara- 
tion of stores for their future wants, like the fact observed in insects, 
who lay up food before death for the young grub they shall never see. 

I would not be hurried by any love of system, by any exagger- 
ation of instincts, to underrate the Book. We all know, that, as the 
human body can be nourished on any food, though it were boiled 
grass and the broth of shoes, so the human mind can be fed by any 
knowledge. x\nd great and heroic men have existed, who had almost 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 351 

no other information than by the printed page. I only would say, 
that it needs a strong head to bear that diet. One must be an 
inventor to read well. As the proverb says, ' 'He that would bring 
home the wealth of the Indies, must carry out the wealth of the 
Indies." There is then creative reading as well as creative writing. 
When the mind is braced by labor and invention, the page of what- 
ever book we read becomes luminous with manifold allusion. Every 
sentence is doubly significant, and the sense of our author is as broad 
as the world. We then see, what is always true, that, as the seer's 
hour of vision is short and rare among heavy days and months, so is 
its record, perchance, the least part of his volume. The discerning 
will read, in his Plato or Shakspeare, only that least part, — only the 
authentic utterances of the oracle; — all the rest he rejects, were it 
never so many times Plato's and Shakspeare's. 

Of course, there is a portion of reading quite indispensable to 
a wise man. History and exact science he must learn by laborious 
reading. Colleges, in like manner, have their indispensable office, — 
to teach elements. But they can only highly serve us, when they aim 
not to drill, but to create; when they gather from far every ray of 
various genius to their hospitable halls, and, by the concentrated 
fires, set the hearts of their youth on flame. Thought and knowledge 
are natures in which apparatus and pretension avail nothing. Gowns, 
and pecuniary foundations, though of towns of gold, can never 
countervail the least sentence or syllable of wit. Forget this, and 
our American colleges will recede in their public importance, whilst 
they grow richer every year. 

III. There goes in the world a notion, that the scholar shouk" 
be a recluse, a valetudinarian, — as unfit for any handiwork or public 
labor, as a pen-knife for an axe. The so-called "practical men" 
sneer at speculative men, as if, because they speculate or see, they 
could do nothing. I have heard it said that the clergy, — who are 
always, more universally than any other class, the scholars of their 
day, — are addressed as women; that the rough, spontaneous conver- 
sation of men they do not hear, but only a mincing and diluted speech. 
They are often virtually disfranchised; and, indeed, there are advo- 
cates for their celibacy. As far as this is true of the studious classes, 
it is not just and wise. Action is with the scholar subordinate, but 
it is essential. Without it, he is not yet man. Without it, thought 



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can never ripen into truth. Whilst the world hangs before the eye 
as a cloud of beauty, we cannot even see its beauty. Inaction is 
cowardice, but there can be no scholar without the heroic mind. 
The preamble of thought, the transition through which it passes from 
the unconscious to the conscious, is action. Only so much do I know, 
as I have lived. Instantly we know whose words are loaded with 
life, and whose not. 

The world, — this shadow of the soul, or other me, lies wide around. 
Its attractions are the keys which unlock my thoughts and make me 
acquainted with myself. I run eagerly into this resounding tumult. 
I grasp the hands of those next me, and take my place in the ring to 
suffer and to work, taught by an instinct, that so shall the dumb 
abyss be vocal with speech. I pierce its order; I dissipate its fear; 
I dispose of it within the circuit of my expanding life. So much only 
of life as I know by experience, so much of the wilderness have I 
vanquished and planted, or so far have I extended my being, my 
dominion. I do not see how any man can afford, for the sake of his 
nerves and his nap, to spare any action in which he can partake. It is 
pearls and rubies to his discourse. Drudgery, calamity, exaspera- 
tion, want, are instructors in eloquence and wisdom. The true 
scholar grudges every opportunity of action past by, as a loss of 
power. 

It is the raw material out of which the intellect moulds her 
splendid products. A strange process too, this, by which experience 
is converted into thought, as a mulberry leaf is converted into satin. 
The manufacture goes forward at all hours. 

The actions and events of our childhood and youth, are now 
matters of calmest observation. They lie like fair pictures in the 
air. Not so with our recent actions, — with the business which we 
now have in hand. On this we are quite unable to speculate. Our 
affections as yet circulate through it. We no more feel or know it, 
than we feel the feet, or the hand, or the brain of our body. The 
new deed is yet a part of life, — remains for a time immersed in our 
unconscious life. In some contemplative hour, it detaches itself 
from the life like a ripe fruit, to become a thought of the mind. 
Instantly, it is raised, transfigured; the corruptible has put on incor- 
ruption. Henceforth it is an object of beauty, however base its 
origin and neighborhood. Observe, too, the impossibility of ante- 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 353 

dating this act. In its grub state, it cannot fly, it cannot shine, it is 
a dull grub. But suddenly, without observation, the selfsame thing 
unfurls beautiful wings, and is an angel of wisdom. So is there no 
fact, no event, in our private history, which shall not, sooner or later, 
lose its adhesive, inert form, and astonish us by soaring from our body 
into the empyrean. Cradle and infancy, school and playground, the 
fear of boys, and dogs, and ferules, the love of little maids and berries, 
and many another fact that once filled the whole sky, are gone 
already; friend and relative, profession and party, town and country, 
nation and world, must also soar and sing. 

Of course, he who has put forth his total strength in fit actions, 
has the richest return of wisdom. I will not shut myself out of this 
globe of action, and transplant an oak into a flower-pot, there to 
hunger and pine; nor trust the revenue of some single faculty, and 
exhaust one vein of thought, much like those Savoyards, who, 
getting their livelihood by carving shepherds, shepherdesses, and 
smoking Dutchmen, for all Europe, went out one day to the mountain 
to find stock, and discovered that they had whittled up the last of 
their pine-trees. Authors we have, in numbers, who have written 
out their vein, and who, moved by a commendable prudence, sail for 
Greece or Palestine, follow the trapper into the prairie, or ramble 
round Algiers, to replenish their merchantable stock. 

If it were only for a vocabulary, the scholar would be covetous of 
action. Life is our dictionary. Years are well spent in country- 
labors; in town, — in the insight into trades and manufactures; in 
frank intercourse with many men and women; in science; in art; 
to the one end of mastering in all their facts a language by which to 
illustrate and embody our perceptions. I learn immediately from 
any speaker how much he has already lived, through the poverty or 
the splendor of his speech. Life lies behind us as the quarry from 
whence we get tiles and copestones for the masonry of to-day. This 
is the way to learn grammar. Colleges and books only copy the 
language which the field and the work-yard made. 

But the final value of action, like that of books, and better than 
books, is, that it is a resource. That great principle of Undulation 
in nature, that shows itself in the inspiring and expiring of the breath; 
in desire and satiety; in the ebb and flow of the sea; in day and 
night; in heat and cold; and as yet more deeply ingrained in every 



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atom and every fluid, is known to us under the name of Polarity, — 
these "fits of easy transmission and reflection," as Newton called 
them, are the law of nature because they are the law of spirit. 

The mind now thinks; now acts; and each fit reproduces the 
other. When the artist has exhausted his materials, when the fancy 
no longer paints, when thoughts are no longer apprehended, and 
books are a weariness, — he has always the resource to live. Char- 
acter is higher than intellect. Thinking is the function. Living 
is the functionary. The stream retreats to its source. A great soul 
will be strong to live, as well as strong to think. Does he lack organ 
or medium to impart his truth ? He can still fall back on this ele- 
mental force of living them. This is a total act. Thinking is a 
partial act. Let the grandeur of justice shine in his affairs. Let 
the beauty of affection cheer his lowly roof. Those "far from fame," 
who dwell and act with him, will feel the force of his constitution in 
the doings and passages of the day better than it can be measured 
by any public and designed display. Time shall teach him, that the 
scholar loses no hour which the man lives. Herein he unfolds the 
sacred germ of his instinct, screened from influence. What is lost 
in seemliness is gained in strength. Not out of those, on whom sys- 
tems of education have exhausted their culture, comes the helpful 
giant to destroy the old or to build the new, but out of unhandselled 
savage nature, out of terrible Druids and Berserkirs come at last 
Alfred and Shakspeare. 

I hear therefore with joy whatever is beginning to be said of the 
dignity and necessity of labor to every citizen. There is virtue yet 
in the hoe and the spade, for learned as well as for unlearned hands. 
And labor is everywhere welcome; always we are invited to work; 
only be this limitation observed, that a man shall not for the sake of 
wider activity sacrifice any opinion to the popular judgments and 
modes of action. 

I have now spoken of the education of the scholar by nature, by 
books, and by action. It remains to say somewhat of his duties. 

They are such as become Man Thinking. They may all be 
comprised in self-trust. The office of the scholar is to cheer, to raise, 
and to guide men by showing them facts amidst appearances. He 
plies the slow, unhonored, and unpaid task of observation. Flam- 
steed and Herschel, in their glazed observatories, may catalogue the 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 355 

stars with the praise of all men, and, the results being splendid and 
useful, honor is sure. But he, in his private observatory, cataloguing 
obscure and nebulous stars of the human mind, which as yet no man 
has thought of as such, — watching days and months, sometimes, for 
a few facts; correcting still his old records; — must relinquish display 
and immediate fame. In the long period of his preparation, he must 
betray often an ignorance and shiftlessness in popular arts, incurring 
the disdain of the able who shoulder him aside. Long he must 
stammer in his speech; often forego the living for the dead. Worse 
yet, he must accept, — how often! poverty and solitude. For the 
ease and pleasure of treading the old road, accepting the fashions, 
the education, the religion of society, he takes the cross of making 
his own, and, of course, the self-accusation, the faint heart, the fre- 
quent uncertainty and loss of time, which are the nettles and tangling 
vines in the way of the self-relying and self -directed; and the state 
of virtual hostility in which he seems to stand to society, and espe- 
cially to educated society. For all this loss and scorn, what offset ? 
He is to find consolation in exercising the highest functions of human 
nature. He is one, who raises himself from private considerations, 
and breathes and lives on public and illustrious thoughts. He is the 
world's eye. He is the world's heart. He is to resist the vulgar 
prosperity that retrogrades ever to barbarism, by preserving and 
communicating heroic sentiments, noble biographies, melodious 
verse, and the conclusions of history. Whatsoever oracles the 
human heart, in all emergencies, in all solemn hours, has uttered as 
its commentary on the world of actions, — these he shall receive and 
impart. And whatsoever new verdict Reason from her inviolable 
seat pronounces on the passing men and events of to-day, — this he 
shall hear and promulgate. 

These being his functions, it becomes him to feel all confidence 
in himself, and to defer never to the popular cry. He and he only 
knows the world. The world of any moment is the merest appear- 
ance. Some great decorum, some fetish of a government, some 
ephemeral trade, or war, or man, is cried up by half mankind and 
cried down by the other half, as if all depended on this particular up 
or down. The odds are that the whole question is not worth the 
poorest thought which the scholar has lost in listening to the contro- 
versy. Let him not quit his belief that a popgun is a popgun, though 



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the ancient and honorable of the earth affirm it to be the crack of 
doom. In silence, in steadiness, in severe abstraction, let him hold by 
himself; add observation to observation, patient of neglect, patient 
of reproach; and bide his own time, — happy enough, if he can satisfy 
himself alone, that this day he has seen something truly. Success 
treads on every right step. For the instinct is sure, that prompts 
him to tell his brother what he thinks. He then learns, that in going 
down into the secrets of his own mind, he has descended into the 
secrets of all minds. He learns that he who has mastered any law 
in his private thoughts, is master to that extent of all men whose 
language he speaks, and of all into whose language his own can be 
translated. The poet, in utter solitude remembering his spon- 
taneous thoughts and recording them, is found to have recorded that, 
which men in crowded cities find true for them also. The orator 
distrusts at first the fitness of his frank confessions, — his want of 
knowledge of the persons he addresses, — until he finds that he is the 
complement of his hearers; — that they drink his words because he 
fulfils for them their own nature; the deeper he dives into his privatest, 
secretest presentiment, to his wonder he finds, this is the most 
acceptable, most public, and universally true. The people delight in 
it; the better part of every man feels, This is my music; this is myself. 
In self -trust, all the virtues are comprehended. Free should the 
scholar be, — free and brave. Free even to the definition of freedom, 
"without any hindrance that does not arise out of his own consti- 
tution." Brave; for fear is a thing, which a scholar by his very 
function puts behind him. Fear always springs from ignorance. It 
is a shame to him if his tranquillity, amid dangerous times, arise from 
the presumption, that, like children and women, his is a protected 
class ; or if he seek a temporary peace by the diversion of his thoughts 
from politics or vexed questions, hiding his head like an ostrich in the 
flowering bushes, peeping into microscopes, and turning rhymes, as 
a boy whistles to keep his courage up. So is the danger a danger still ; 
so is the fear worse. Manlike let him turn and face it. Let him 
look into its eye and search its nature, inspect its origin, — see the 
whelping of this lion, — which lies no great way back; he will then 
find in himself a perfect comprehension of its nature and extent; he 
will have made his hands meet on the other side, and can henceforth 
defy it, and pass on superior. The world is his, who can see through 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 357 

its pretension. What deafness, what stone-blind custom, what 
overgrown error you behold, is there only by sufferance, — by your 
sufferance. See it to be a lie, and you have already dealt it its 
mortal blow. 

Yes, we are the cowed, — we the trustless. It is a mischievous 
notion that we are come late into nature; that the world was finished 
a long time ago. As the world was plastic and fluid in the hands of 
God, so it is ever to so much of his attributes as we bring to it. To 
ignorance and sin, it is flint. They adapt themselves to it as they 
may; but in proportion as a man has any thing in him divine, the 
firmament flows before him and takes his signet and form. Not he 
is great who can alter matter, but he who can alter my state of mind. 
They are the kings of the world who give the color of their present 
thought to all nature and all art, and persuade men by the cheerful 
serenity of their carrying the matter, that this thing which they do, 
is the apple which the ages have desired to pluck, now at last ripe, 
and inviting nations to the harvest. The great man makes the great 
thing. Wherever Macdonald sits, there is the head of the table. 
Linnaeus makes botany the most alluring of studies, and wins it from 
the farmer and the herb-woman; Davy, chemistry; and Cuvier, 
fossils. The day is always his, who works in it with serenity and 
great aims. The unstable estimates of men crowd to him whose mind 
is filled with a truth, as the heaped waves of the Atlantic follow the 
moon. 

For this self-trust, the reason is deeper than can be fathomed, — 
darker than can be enlightened. I might not carry with me the 
feeling of my audience in stating my own belief. But I have already 
shown the ground of my hope, in adverting to the doctrine that man 
is one. I believe man has been wronged; he has wronged himself. 
He has almost lost the light, that can lead him back to his pre- 
rogatives. Men are become of no account. Men in history, men 
in the world of to-day, are bugs, are spawn, and are called "the mass" 
and "the herd." In a century, in a millennium, one or two men; 
that is to say, — one or two approximations to the right state of every 
man. All the rest behold in the hero or the poet their own green and 
crude being, — ripened; yes, and are content to be less, so that may 
attain to its full stature. What a testimony, — full of grandeur, 
full of pity, is borne to the demands of his own nature, by the poor 



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clansman, the poor partisan, who rejoices in the glory of his chief. 
The poor and the low find some amends to their immense moral 
capacity, for their acquiescence in a political and social inferiority. 
They are content to be brushed like flies from the path of a great 
person, so that justice shall be done by him to that common nature 
which it is the dearest desire of all to see enlarged and glorified. 
They sun themselves in the great man's light, and feel it to be their 
own element. They cast the dignity of man from their downtrod 
selves upon the shoulders of a hero, and will perish to add one drop of 
blood to make that great heart beat, those giant sinews combat and 
conquer. He lives for us, and we live in him. 

Men such as they are, very naturally seek money or power; and 
power because it is as good as money, — the "spoils," so called, "of 
office." And why not ? for they aspire to the highest, and this, in their 
sleep-walking, they dream is highest. Wake them, and they shall 
quit the false good, and leap to the true, and leave governments to 
clerks and desks. This revolution is to be wrought by the gradual 
domestication of the idea of Culture. The main enterprise of the 
world for splendor, for extent, is the upbuilding of a man. Here are 
the materials strown along the ground. The private life of one man 
shall be a more illustrious monarchy, — more formidable to its enemy, 
more sweet and serene in its influence to its friend, than any kingdom 
in history. For a man, rightly viewed, comprehendeth the particular 
natures of all men. Each philosopher, each bard, each actor, has 
only done for me, as by a delegate, what one day I can do for myself. 
The books which once we valued more than the apple of the eye, we 
have quite exhausted. What is that but saying, that we have come 
up with the point of view which the universal mind took through 
the eyes of one scribe; we have been that man, and have passed on. 
First, one; then, another; we drain all cisterns, and, waxing greater 
by all these supplies, we crave a better and more abundant food. 
The man has never lived that can feed us ever. The human mind 
cannot be enshrined in a person, who shall set a barrier on any one 
side to this unbounded, unboundable empire. It is one central fire, 
which, flaming now out of the lips of Etna, lightens the capes of 
Sicily; and now out of the throat of Vesuvius, illuminates the towers 
and vineyards of Naples. It is one light which beams out of a 
thousand stars. It is one soul which animates all men. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 359 

But I have dwelt perhaps tediously upon this abstraction of the 
Scholar. I ought not to delay longer to add what I have to say, of 
nearer reference to the time and to this country. 

Historically, there is thought to be a difference in the ideas which 
predominate over successive epochs, and there are data for marking 
the genius of the Classic, of the Romantic, and now of the Reflective 
or Philosophical age. With the views I have intimated of the one- 
ness or the identity of the mind through all individuals, I do not much 
dwell on these differences. In fact, I believe each individual passes 
through all three. The boy is a Greek; the youth, romantic; the 
adult, reflective. I deny not, however, that a revolution in the lead- 
ing idea may be distinctly enough traced. 

Our age is bewailed as the age of Introversion. Must that needs 
be evD ? We, it seems, are critical; we are embarrassed with second 
thoughts; we cannot enjoy any thing for hankering to know whereof 
the pleasure consists; we are lined with eyes; we see with our feet; 
the time is infected with Hamlet's unhappiness, — 

"Sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." 

It is so bad then ? Sight is the last' thing to be pitied. Would we 
be blind ? Do we fear lest we should outsee nature and God, and 
drink truth dry? I look upon the discontent of the literary class, 
as a mere announcement of the fact, that they find themselves not 
in the state of mind of their fathers, and regret the coming state as 
untried; as a boy dreads the water before he has learned that he can 
swim. If there is any period one would desire to be born in, — is it 
not the age of Revolution; when the old and the new stand side by 
side, and admit of being compared; when the energies of all men are 
searched by fear and by hope; when the historic glories of the old, 
can be compensated by the rich possibilities of the new era ? This 
time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do 
with it. 

I read with some joy of the auspicious signs of the coming days, 
as they glimmer already through poetry and art, through philosophy 
and science, through church and state. 

One of these signs is the fact, that the same movement which 
effected the elevation of what was called the lowest class in the state, 
assumed in literature a very marked and as benign an aspect. Instead 



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of the sublime and beautiful; the near, the low, the common, was 
explored and poetized. That, which had been negligently trodden 
under foot by those who were harnessing and provisioning them- 
selves for long journeys into far countries, is suddenly found to be 
richer than all foreign parts. The literature of the poor, the feelings 
of the child, the philosophy of the street, the meaning of household 
life, are the topics of the time. It is a great stride. It is a sign, — 
is it not ? of new vigor, when the extremities are made active, when 
currents of warm life run into the hands and the feet. I ask not for 
the great, the remote, the romantic; what is doing in Italy or Arabia; 
what is Greek art, or Provencal minstrelsy; I embrace the common, 
I explore and sit at the feet of the familiar, the low. Give me insight 
into to-day, and you may have the antique and future worlds. What 
would we really know the meaning of ? The meal in the firkin; the 
milk in the pan; the ballad in the street; the news of the boat; the 
glance of the eye; the form and the gait of the body; — show me the 
ultimate reason of these matters; show me the sublime presence of 
the highest spiritual cause lurking, as always it does lurk, in these 
suburbs and extremities of nature; let me see every trifle bristling 
with the polarity that ranges it instantly on an eternal law; and the 
shop, the plough, and the ledger, referred to the like cause by which 
light undulates and poets sing; — and the world lies no longer a dull 
miscellany and lumber-room, but has form and' order; there is no 
trifle; there is no puzzle; but one design unites and animates the 
farthest pinnacle and the lowest trench. 

This idea has inspired the genius of Goldsmith, Burns, Cowper, 
and, in a newer time, of Goethe, Wordsworth, and Carlyle. This 
idea they have differently followed and with various success. In 
contrast with their writing, the style of Pope, of Johnson, of Gibbon, 
looks cold and pedantic. This writing is blood-warm. Man is sur- 
prised to find that things near are not less beautiful and wondrous 
than things remote. The near explains the far. The drop is a small 
ocean. A man is related to all nature. This perception of the worth 
of the vulgar is fruitful in discoveries. Goethe, in this very thing 
the most modern of the moderns, has shown us, as none ever did, the 
genius of the ancients. 

There is one man of genius, who has done much for this phi- 
losophy of life, whose literary value has never yet been rightly esti- 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 361 

mated; — I mean Emanuel Swedenborg. The most imaginative of 
men, yet writing with the precision of a mathematician, he endeavored 
to engraft a purely philosophical Ethics on the popular Christianity 
of his time. Such an attempt, of course, must have difficulty, which 
no genius could surmount. But he saw and showed the connection 
between nature and the affections of the soul. He pierced the 
emblematic or spiritual character of the visible, audible, tangible 
world. Especially did his shade-loving muse hover over and inter- 
pret the lower parts of nature; he showed the mysterious bond that 
allies moral evil to the foul material forms, and has given in epical 
parables a theory of insanity, of beasts, of unclean and fearful things. 
Another sign of our times, also marked by an analogous political 
movement, is, the new importance given to the single person. Every 
thing that tends to insulate the individual, — to surround him with 
barriers of natural respect, so that each man shall feel the world is 
his, and man shall treat with man as a sovereign state with a sovereign 
state; — tends to true union as well as greatness. "I learned," said 
the melancholy Pestalozzi, "that no man in God's wide earth is either 
willing or able to help any other man." Help must come from the 
bosom alone. The scholar is that man who must take up into him- 
self all the ability of the time, all the contributions of the past, all 
the hopes of the future. He must be an university of knowledges. 
If there be one lesson more than another, which should pierce his 
ear, it is, The world is nothing, the man is all; in yourself is the law 
of all nature, and you know not yet how a globule of sap ascends; 
in yourself slumbers the whole of Reason; it is for you to know all; 
it is for you to dare all. Mr. President and Gentlemen, this confi- 
dence in the unsearched might of man belongs, by all motives, by all 
prophecy, by all preparation, to the American Scholar. We have 
listened too long to the courtly muses of Europe. The spirit of the 
American freeman is already suspected to be timid, imitative, tame. 
Public and private avarice make the air we breathe thick and fat. 
The scholar is decent, indolent, complaisant. See already the tragic 
consequence. The mind of this country, taught to aim at low objects, 
eats upon itself. There is no work for any but the decorous and the 
complaisant. Young men of the fairest promise, who begin life 
upon our shores, inflated by the mountain winds, shined upon by all 
the stars of God, find the earth below not in unison with these, — 



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but are hindered from action by the disgust which the principles on 
which business is managed inspire, and turn drudges, or die of dis- 
gust, — some of them suicides. What is the remedy ? They did not 
yet see, and thousands of young men as hopeful now crowding to the 
barriers for the career, do not yet see, that, if the single man plant 
himself indomitably on his instincts, and there abide, the huge world 
will come round to him. Patience, — patience; — with the shades of 
all the good and great for company; and for solace, the perspective 
of your own infinite life; and for work, the study and the communi- 
cation of principles, the making those instincts prevalent, the conver- 
sion of the world. Is it not the chief disgrace in the world, not to 
be an unit; — not to be reckoned one character; — not to yield that 
peculiar fruit which each man was created to bear, but to be reckoned 
in the gross, in the hundred, or the thousand, of the party, the section, 
to which we belong; and our opinion predicted geographically, as 
the north, or the south? Not so, brothers and friends, — please 
God, ours shall not be so. We will walk on our own feet; we will 
work with our own hands; we will speak our own minds. The study 
of letters shall be no longer a name for pity, for doubt, and for sensual 
indulgence. The dread of man and the love of man shall be a wall 
of defence and a wreath of joy around all. A nation of men will for 
the first time exist, because each believes himself inspired by the 
Divine Soul which also inspires all men. 



THE OVER-SOUL 

There is a difference between one and another hour of life, in 
their authority and subsequent effect. Our faith comes in moments; 
our vice is habitual. Yet there is a depth in those brief moments 
which constrains us to ascribe more reality to them than to all other 
experiences. For this reason, the argument which is always forth- 
coming to silence those who conceive extraordinary hopes of man, 
namely, the appeal to experience, is for ever invalid and vain. We 
give up the past to the objector, and yet we hope. He must explain 
this hope. We grant that human life is mean; but how did we find 
out that it was mean? What is the ground of this uneasiness of 
ours; of this old discontent? What is the universal sense of want 
and ignorance, but the fine innuendo by which the soul makes its 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 363 

enormous claim ? Why do men feel that the natural history of man 
has never been written, but he is always leaving behind what you 
have said of him, and it becomes old, and books of metaphysics worth- 
less? The philosophy of six thousand years has not searched the 
chambers and magazines of the soul. In its experiments there has 
always remained, in the last analysis, a residuum it could not resolve. 
Man is a stream whose source is hidden. Our being is descending 
into us from we know not whence. The most exact calculator has 
no prescience that somewhat incalculable may not balk the very next 
moment. I am constrained every moment to acknowledge a higher 
origin for events than the will I call mine. 

As with events, so is it with thoughts. When I watch that 
flowing river, which, out of regions I see not, pours for a season its 
streams into me, I see that I am a pensioner; not a cause, but a sur- 
prised spectator of this ethereal water; that I desire and look up, and 
put myself in the attitude of reception, but from some alien energy 
the visions come. 

The Supreme Critic on the errors of the past and the present, and 
the only prophet of that which must be, is that great nature in which 
we rest, as the earth lies in the soft arms of the atmosphere; that 
Unity, that Over-soul, within which every man's particular being is 
contained and made one with all other; that common heart, of which 
all sincere conversation is the worship, to which all right action is 
submission; that overpowering reality which confutes our tricks 
and talents, and constrains every one to pass for what he is, and to 
speak from his character, and not from his tongue, and which ever- 
more tends to pass into our thought and hand, and become wisdom, 
and virtue, and power, and beauty. We live in succession, in division, 
in parts, in particles. Meantime within man is the soul of the whole; 
the wise silence; the universal beauty, to which every part and 
particle is equally related; the eternal One. And this deep power 
in which we exist, and whose beatitude is all accessible to us, is not 
only self-sufficing and perfect in every hour, but the act of seeing and 
the thing seen, the seer and the spectacle, the subject and the object, 
are one. We see the world piece by piece, as the sun, the moon, 
the animal, the tree; but the whole, of which these are the shining 
parts, is the soul. Only by the vision of that Wisdom can the horo- 
scope of the ages be read, and by falling back on our better thoughts, 



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by yielding to the spirit of prophecy which is innate in every man, 
we can know what it saith. Every man's words, who speaks from 
that life, must sound vain to those who do not dwell in the same 
thought on their own part. I dare not speak for it. My words do 
not carry its august sense; they fall short and cold. Only itself can 
inspire whom it will, and behold! their speech shall be lyrical, and 
sweet, and universal as the rising of the wind. Yet I desire, even by 
profane words, if I may not use sacred, to indicate the heaven of this 
deity, and to report what hints I have collected of the transcendent 
simplicity and energy of the Highest Law. 

If we consider what happens in conversation, in reveries, in 
remorse, in times of passion, in surprises, in the instructions of dreams, 
wherein often we, see ourselves in masquerade, — the droll disguises 
only magnifying and enhancing a real element, and forcing it on our 
distinct notice, — we shall catch many hints that will broaden and 
lighten into knowledge of the secret of nature. All goes to show 
that the soul in man is not an organ, but animates and exercises all 
the organs; is not a function, like the power of memory, of calcula- 
tion, of comparison, but uses these as hands and feet; is not a faculty, 
but a light; is not the intellect or the will, but the master of the 
intellect and the will; is the vast background of our being, in which 
they lie, — an immensity not possessed and that cannot be possessed. 
From within or from behind, a light shines through us upon things, 
and makes us aware that we are nothing, but the light is all. A man 
is the facade of a temple wherein all wisdom and all good abide. 
What we commonly call man, the eating, drinking, planting, counting 
man, does not, as we know him, represent himself, but misrepresents 
himself. Him we do not respect, but the soul, whose organ he is, 
would he let it appear through his action, would make our knees 
bend. When it breathes through his intellect, it is genius; when it 
breathes through his will, it is virtue; when it flows through his 
affection, it is love. And the blindness of the intellect begins, when 
it would be something of itself. The weakness of the will begins, 
when the individual would be something of himself. All reform 
aims, in some one particular, to let the soul have its way through 
us; in other words, to engage us to obey. 

Of this pure nature every man is at some time sensible. Lan- 
guage cannot paint it with his colors. It is too subtile. It is unde- 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 365 

finable, immeasurable, but we know that it pervades and contains 
us. We know that all spiritual being is in man. A wise old proverb 
says, "God comes to see us without bell": that is, as there is no 
screen or ceiling between our heads and the infinite heavens, so is 
there no bar or wall in the soul where man, the effect, ceases, and 
God, the cause, begins. The walls are taken away. We lie open 
on one side to the deeps of spiritual nature, to the attributes of God. 
Justice we see and know, Love, Freedom, Power. These natures 
no man ever got above, but they tower over us, and most in the 
moment when our interests tempt us to wound them. 

The sovereignty of this nature whereof we speak is made known 
by its independency of those limitations which circumscribe us on 
every hand. The soul circumscribes all things. As I have said, it 
contradicts all experience. In like manner it abolishes time and 
space. The influence of the senses has, in most men, overpowered the 
mind to that degree, that the walls of time and space have come to 
look real and insurmountable; and to speak with levity of these 
limits is, in the world, the sign of insanity. Yet time and space are 
but inverse measures of the force of the soul. The spirit sports with 
time, — 

" Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
Or stretch an hour to eternity." 

We are often made to feel that there is another youth and age 
than that which is measured from the year of our natural birth. 
Some thoughts always find us young, and keep us so. Such a thought 
is the love of the universal and eternal beauty. Every man parts 
from that contemplation with the feeling that it rather belongs to 
ages than to mortal life. The least activity of the intellectual powers 
redeems us in a degree from the conditions of time. In sickness, in 
languor, give us a strain of poetry, or a profound sentence, and we are 
refreshed; or produce a volume of Plato, or Shakspeare, or remind 
us of their names, and instantly we come into a feeling of longevity. 
See how the deep, divine thought reduces centuries, and millenniums, 
and makes itself present through all ages. Is the teaching of Christ 
less effective now than it was when first his mouth was opened? 
The emphasis of facts and persons in my thought has nothing to do 
with time. And so, always, the soul's scale is one; the scale of the 
senses and the understanding is another. Before the revelations of 



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the soul, Time, Space, and Nature shrink away. In common speech, 
we refer all things to time, as we habitually refer the immensely 
sundered stars to one concave sphere. And so we say that the 
Judgment is distant or near, that the Millennium approaches, that 
a day of certain political, moral, social reforms is at hand, and the 
like, when we mean, that, in the nature of things, one of the facts we 
contemplate is external and fugitive, and the other is permanent and 
connate with the soul. The things we now esteem fixed shall, one 
by one, detach themselves, like ripe fruit, from our experience, and 
fall. The wind shall blow them none knows whither. The land- 
scape, the figures, Boston, London, are facts as fugitive as any insti- 
tution past, or any whiff of mist or smoke, and so is society, and so 
is the world. The soul looketh steadily forwards, creating a world 
before her, leaving worlds behind her. She has no dates, nor rites, 
nor persons, nor specialities, nor men. The soul knows only the soul; 
the web of events is the flowing robe in which she is clothed. 

After its own law and not by arithmetic is the rate of its progress 
to be computed. The soul's advances are not made by gradation, 
such as can be represented by motion in a straight line; but rather by 
ascension of state, such as can be represented by metamorphosis, — 
from the egg to the worm, from the worm to the fly. The growths of 
genius are of a certain total character, that does not advance the elect 
individual first over John, then Adam, then Richard, and give to each 
the pain of discovered inferiority, but by every throe of growth the 
man expands there where he works, passing, at each pulsation, classes, 
populations, of men. With each divine impulse the mind rends the 
thin rinds of the visible and finite, and comes out into eternity, and 
inspires and expires its air. It converses with truths that have 
always been spoken in the world, and becomes conscious of a closer 
sympathy with Zeno and Arrian than with persons in the house. 

This is the law of moral and of mental gain. The simple rise 
as by specific levity, not into a particular virtue, but into the region 
of all the virtues. They are in the spirit which contains them all. 
The soul requires purity, but purity is not it; requires justice, but 
justice is not that; requires beneficence, but is somewhat better; 
so that there is a kind of descent and accommodation felt when we 
leave speaking of moral nature, to urge a virtue which it enjoins. 
To the well-born child, all the virtues are natural, and not painfully 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 367 

acquired. Speak to his heart, and the man becomes suddenly 
virtuous. 

Within the same sentiment is the germ of intellectual growth, 
which obeys the same law. Those who are capable of humility, of 
justice, of love, of aspiration, stand already on a platform that com- 
mands the sciences and arts, speech and poetry, action and grace. 
For whoso dwells in this moral beatitude already anticipates those 
special powers which men prize so highly. The lover has no 
talent, no skill, which passes for quite nothing with his enamored 
maiden, however little she may possess of related faculty; and the 
heart which abandons itself to the Supreme Mind finds itself related 
to all its works, and will travel a royal road to particular knowledges 
and powers. In ascending to this primary and aboriginal sentiment, 
we have come from our remote station on the circumference instanta- 
neously to the centre of the world, where, as in the closet of God, we 
see causes, and anticipate the universe, which is but a slow effect. 

One mode of the divine teaching is the incarnation of the spirit 
in a form, — in forms, like my own. I live in society; with persons 
who answer to thoughts in my own mind, or express a certain obedi- 
ence to the great instincts to which I live. I see its presence to them. 
I am certified of a common nature; and these other souls, these 
separated selves, draw me as nothing else can. They stir in me the 
new emotions we call passion; of love, hatred, fear, admiration, pity; 
thence comes conversation, competition, persuasion, cities, and war. 
Persons are supplementary to the primary teaching of the soul. In 
youth we are mad for persons. Childhood and youth see all the 
world in them. But the larger experience of man discovers the 
identical nature appearing through them all. Persons themselves 
acquaint us with the impersonal. In all conversation between two 
persons, tacit reference is made, as to a third party, to a common 
nature. That third party or common nature is not social; it is 
impersonal; is God. And so in groups where debate is earnest, and 
especially on high questions, the company become aware that the 
thought rises to an equal level in all bosoms, that all have a spiritual 
property in what was said, as well as the sayer. They all become 
wiser than they were. It arches over them like a temple, this unity 
of thought, in which every heart beats with nobler sense of power and 
duty, and thinks and acts with unusual solemnity. All are conscious 



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of attaining to a higher self-possession. It shines for all. There 
is a certain wisdom of humanity which is common to the greatest 
men with the lowest, and which our ordinary education often labors 
to silence and obstruct. The mind is one, and the best minds, who 
love truth for its own sake, think much less of property in truth. 
They accept it thankfully everywhere, and do not label or stamp it 
with any man's name, for it is theirs long beforehand, and from 
eternity. The learned and the studious of thought have no monopoly 
of wisdom. Their violence of direction in some degree disqualifies 
them to think truly. We owe many valuable observations to people 
who are not very acute or profound, and who say the thing without 
effort, which we want and have long been hunting in vain. The 
action of the soul is oftener in that which is felt and left unsaid, than 
in that which is said in any conversation. It broods over every 
society, and they unconsciously seek for it in each other. We know 
better than we do. We do not yet possess ourselves, and we know 
at the same time that we are much more. I feel the same truth how 
often in my trivial conversation with my neighbours, that somewhat 
higher in each of us overlooks this by-play, and Jove nods to Jove 
from behind each of us. 

Men descend to meet. In their habitual and mean service to the 
world, for which they forsake their native nobleness, they resemble 
those Arabian sheiks, who dwell in mean houses, and affect an external 
poverty, to escape the rapacity of the Pacha, and reserve all their 
display of wealth for their interior and guarded retirements. 

As it is present in all persons, so it is in every period of life. It 
is adult already in the infant man. In my dealing with my child, 
my Latin and Greek, my accomplishments and my money stead me 
nothing; but as much soul as I have avails. If I am wilful, he sets 
his will against mine, one for one, and leaves me, if I please, the 
degradation of beating him by my superiority of strength. But if 
I renounce my will, and act for the soul, setting that up as umpire 
between us two, out of his young eyes looks the same soul; he reveres 
and loves with me. 

The soul is the perceiver and revealer of truth. We know truth 
when we see it, let skeptic and scoffer say what they choose. Foolish 
people ask you, when you have spoken what they do not wish to hear, 
"How do you know it is truth, and not an error of your own?" We 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 369 

know truth when we see it, from opinion, as we know when we are 
awake that we are awake. It was a grand sentence of Emanuel 
Swedenborg, which would alone indicate the greatness of that man's 
perception, — "It is no proof of a man's understanding to be able to 
confirm whatever he pleases; but to be able to discern that what is 
true is true, and that what is false is false, this is the mark and 
character of intelligence." In the book I read, the good thought 
returns to me, as every truth will, the image of the whole soul. To the 
bad thought which I find in it, the same soul becomes a discerning, 
separating sword, and lops it away. We are wiser than we know. 
If we will not interfere with our thought, but will act entirely, or see 
how the thing stands in God, we know the particular thing, and every 
thing, and every man. For the Maker of all things and all persons 
stands behind us, and casts his dread omniscience through us over 
things. 

But beyond this recognition of its own in particular passages of 
the individual's experience, it also reveals truth. And here we 
should seek to reinforce ourselves by its very presence, and to speak 
with a worthier, loftier strain of that advent. For the soul's com- 
munication of truth is the highest event in nature, since it then does 
not give somewhat from itself, but it gives itself, or passes into and 
becomes that man whom it enlightens; or,- in proportion to that 
truth he receives, it takes him to itself. 

We distinguish the announcements of the soul, its manifestations 
of its own nature, by the term Revelation. These are always attended 
by the emotion of the sublime. For this communication is an influx 
of the Divine mind into our mind. It is an ebb of the individual 
rivulet before the flowing surges of the sea of life. Every distinct 
apprehension of this central commandment agitates men with awe 
and delight. A thrill passes through all men at the reception of new 
truth, or at the performance of a great action, which comes out of the 
heart of nature. In these communications, the power to see is not 
separated from the will to do, but the insight proceeds from obedience, 
and the obedience proceeds from a joyful perception. Every moment 
when the individual feels himself invaded by it is memorable. By 
the necessity of our constitution, a certain enthusiasm attends the 
individual's consciousness of that divine presence. The character 
and duration of this enthusiasm varies with the state of the individual, 



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from an ecstasy and trance and prophetic inspiration, — which is its 
rarer appearance, — to the faintest glow of virtuous emotion, in which 
form it warms, like our household fires, all the fa"milies and asso- 
ciations of men, and makes society possible. A certain tendency 
to insanity has always attended the opening of the religious sense 
in men, as if they had been "blasted with excess of light." The 
trances of Socrates, the "union" of Plotinus, the vision of Por- 
phyry, the conversion of Paul, the aurora of Behmen, the convulsions 
of George Fox and his Quakers, the illumination of Swedenborg, are of 
this kind. What was in the case of these remarkable persons a 
ravishment has, in innumerable instances in common life, been 
exhibited in less striking manner. Everywhere the history of religion 
betrays a tendency to enthusiasm. The rapture of the Moravian and 
Quietist; the opening of the internal sense of the Word, in the lan- 
guage of the New Jerusalem Church; the revival of the Calvinistic 
churches; the experiences of the Methodists, are varying forms of that 
shudder of awe and delight with which the individual soul always 
mingles with the universal soul. 

The nature of these revelations is the same; they are perceptions 
of the absolute law. They are solutions of the soul's own questions. 
They do not answer the questions which the understanding asks. 
The soul answers never by words, but by the thing itself that is 
inquired after. 

Revelation is the disclosure of the soul. The popular notion of 
a revelation is, that it is a telling of fortunes. In past oracles of the 
soul, the understanding seeks to find answers to sensual questions, 
and undertakes to tell from God how long men shall exist, what their 
hand shall do, and who shall be their company, adding names, and 
dates, and places. But we must pick no locks. We must check 
this low curiosity. An answer in words is delusive; it is really no 
answer to the questions you ask. Do not require a description of the 
countries towards which you sail. The description does not describe 
them to you, and to-morrow you arrive there, and know them by 
inhabiting them. Men ask concerning the immortality of the soul, 
the employments of heaven, the state of the sinner, and so forth. 
They even dream that Jesus has left replies to precisely these inter- 
rogatories. Never a moment did that sublime spirit speak in their 
patois. To truth, justice, love, the attributes of the soul, the idea of 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 371 

immutableness is essentially associated. Jesus, living in these moral 
sentiments, heedless of sensual fortunes, heeding only the manifes- 
tations of these, never made the separation of the idea of duration 
from the essence of these attributes, nor uttered a syllable concern- 
ing the duration of the soul. It was left to his disciples to sever 
duration from the moral elements, and to teach the immortality 
of the soul as a doctrine, and maintain it by evidences. The 
moment the doctrine of the immortality is separately taught, 
man is already fallen. In the flowing of love, in the adoration of 
humility, there is no question of continuance. No inspired man ever 
asks this question, or condescends to these evidences. For the 
soul is true to itself, and the man in whom it is shed abroad cannot 
wander from the present, which is infinite, to a future which would 
be finite. 

These questions which we lust to ask about the future are a con- 
fession of sin. God has no answer for them. No answer in words 
can reply to a question of things. It is not in an arbitrary "decree of 
God," but in the nature of man, that a veil shuts down on the facts 
of to-morrow; for the soul will not have us read any other cipher 
than that of cause and effect. By this veil, which curtains events, it 
instructs the children of men to live in to-day. The only mode of 
obtaining an answer to these questions of the senses is to forego all 
low curiosity, and, accepting the tide of being which floats us into 
the secret of nature, work and live, work and live, and all unawares 
the advancing soul has built and forged for itself a new condition, 
and the question and the answer are one. 

By the same fire, vital, consecrating, celestial, which burns 
until it shall dissolve all things into the waves and surges of an ocean 
of light, we see and know each other, and what spirit each is of. 
Who can teU the grounds of his knowledge of the character of the 
several individuals in his circle of friends? No man. Yet their 
acts and words do not disappoint him. In that man, though he 
knew no ill of him, he put no trust. In that other, though they had 
seldom met, authentic signs had yet passed, to signify that he might 
be trusted as one who had an interest in his own character. We know 
each other very well, — which of us has been just to himself, and 
whether that which we teach or behold is only an aspiration, or is 
our honest effort also. 



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We are all discerners of spirits. That diagnosis lies aloft in our 
life or unconscious power. The intercourse of society, — its trade, 
its religion, its friendships, its quarrels, — is one wide, judicial investi- 
gation of character. In full court, or in small committee, or con- 
fronted face to face, accuser and accused, men offer themselves to 
be judged. Against their will they exhibit those decisive trifles by 
which character is read. But who judges ? and what ? Not our 
understanding. We do not read them by learning or craft. No; 
the wisdom of the wise man consists herein, that he does not judge 
them; he lets them judge themselves, and merely reads and records 
their own verdict. 

By virtue of this inevitable nature, private will is overpowered, 
and, maugre our efforts or our imperfections, your genius will speak 
from you, and mine from me. That which we are, we shall teach, 
not voluntarily, but involuntarily. Thoughts come into our minds 
by avenues which we never left open, and thoughts go out of our 
minds through avenues which we never voluntarily opened. Char- 
acter teaches over our head. The infallible index of true progress 
is found in the tone the man takes. Neither his age, nor his breeding, 
nor company, nor books, nor actions, nor talents, nor all together, can 
hinder him from being deferential to a higher spirit than his own. If 
he have not found his home in God, his manners, his forms of speech, 
the turn of his sentences, the build, shall I say, of all his opinions, 
will involuntarily confess it, let him brave it out how he will. If he 
have found his centre, the Deity will shine through him, through all 
the disguises of ignorance, of ungenial temperament, of unfavorable 
circumstance. The tone of seeking is one, and the tone of having is 
another. 

The great distinction between teachers sacred or literary, — 
between poets like Herbert, and poets like Pope, — between phi- 
losophers like Spinoza, Kant, and Coleridge, and philosophers like 
Locke, Paley, Mackintosh, and Stewart, — between men of the world, 
who are reckoned accomplished talkers, and here and there a fervent 
mystic, prophesying, half-insane under the infinitude of his thought, 
— is, that one class speak from within, or from experience, as parties 
and possessors of the fact; and the other class, from without, as 
spectators merely, or perhaps as acquainted with the fact on the 
evidence of third persons. It is of no use to preach to me from with- 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 373 

out. I can do that too easily myself. Jesus speaks always from 
within, and in a degree that transcends all others. In that is the 
miracle. I believe beforehand that it ought so to be. All men stand 
continually in the expectation of the appearance of such a teacher. 
But if a man do not speak from within the veil, where the word is one 
with that it tells of, let him lowly confess it. 

The same Omniscience flows into the intellect, and makes what 
we call genius. Much of the wisdom of the world is not wisdom, and 
the most illuminated class of men are no doubt superior to literary 
fame, and are not writers. Among the multitude of scholars and 
authors, we feel no hallowing presence; we are sensible of a knack 
and skill rather than of inspiration; they have a light, and know not 
whence it comes, and call it their own; their talent is some exagger- 
ated faculty, some overgrown member, so that their strength is a 
disease. In these instances the intellectual gifts do not make the 
impression of virtue, but almost of vice; and we feel that a man's 
talents stand in the way of his advancement in truth. But genius is 
religious. It is a larger imbibing of the common heart. It is not 
anomalous, but more like, and not less like other men. There is, 
in all great poets, a wisdom of humanity which is superior to any 
talents they exercise. The author, the wit, the partisan, the fine 
gentleman, does not take place of the man. Humanity shines in 
Homer, in Chaucer, in Spenser, in Shakspeare, in Milton. They are 
content with truth. They use the positive degree. They seem 
frigid and phlegmatic to those who have been spiced with the frantic 
passion and violent coloring of inferior, but popular writers. For 
they are poets by the free course which they allow to the informing 
soul, which through their eyes beholds again, and blesses the things 
which it hath made. The soul is superior to its knowledge; wiser 
than any of its works. The great poet makes us feel our own wealth, 
and then we think less of his compositions. His best communi- 
cation to our mind is to teach us to despise all he has done. Shak- 
speare carries us to such a lofty strain of intelligent activity, as to 
suggest a wealth which beggars his own; and we then feel that the 
splendid works which he has created, and which in other hours we 
extol as a sort of self-existent poetry, take no stronger hold of real 
nature than the shadow of a passing traveller on the rock. The 
inspiration which uttered itself in Hamlet and Lear could utter things 



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as good from day to day, for ever. Why, then, should I make account 
of Hamlet and Lear, as if we had not the soul from which they fell as 
syllables from the tongue? 

This energy does not descend into individual life on any other 
condition than entire possession. It comes to the lowly and simple; 
it comes to whomsoever will put off what is foreign and proud; it 
comes as insight; it comes as serenity and grandeur. When we see 
those whom it inhabits, we are apprized of new degrees of greatness. 
From that inspiration the man comes back with a changed tone. 
He does not talk with men with an eye to their opinion. He tries 
them. It requires of us to be plain and true. The vain traveller 
attempts to embellish his life by quoting my lord, and the prince, 
and the countess, who thus said or did to him. The ambitious vulgar 
show your their spoons, and brooches, and rings, and preserve their 
cards and compliments. The more cultivated, in their account of 
their own experience, cull out the pleasing, poetic circumstance, — 
the visit to Rome, the man of genius they saw, the brilliant friend they 
know; still further on, perhaps, the gorgeous landscape, the mountain 
lights, the mountain thoughts, they enjoyed yesterday, — and so seek 
to throw a romantic color over their life. But the soul that ascends 
to worship the great God is plain and true; has no rose-color, no fine 
friends, no chivalry, no adventures; does not want admiration; 
dwells in the hour that now is, in the earnest experience of the common 
day, — by reason of the present moment and the mere trifle having 
become porous to thought, and bibulous of the sea of light. 

Converse with a mind that is grandly simple, and literature looks 
like word-catching. The simplest utterances are worthiest to be 
written, yet are they so cheap, and so things of course, that, in the 
infinite riches of the soul, it is like gathering a few pebbles off the 
ground, or bottling a little air in a phial, when the whole earth and 
the whole atmosphere are ours. Nothing can pass there, or make you 
one of the circle, but the casting aside your trappings, and dealing man 
to man in naked truth, plain confession, and omniscient affirmation. 

Souls such as these treat you as gods would, walk as gods in the 
earth, accepting without any admiration your wit, your bounty, your 
virtue even, — say rather your act of duty, for your virtue they own 
as their proper blood, royal as themselves, and over-royal, and the 
father of the gods. But what rebuke their plain fraternal bearing 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 375 

casts on the mutual flattery with which authors solace each other 
and wound themselves! These flatter not. I do not wonder that 
these men go to see Cromwell, and Christina, and Charles the Second, 
and James the First, and the Grand Turk. For they are, in their own 
elevation, the fellows of kings, and must feel the servile tone of con- 
versation in the world. They must always be a godsend to princes, 
for they confront them, a king to a king, without ducking or con- 
cession, and give a high nature the refreshment and satisfaction of 
resistance, of plain humanity, of even companionship, and of new 
ideas. They leave them wiser and superior men. Souls like these 
make us feel that sincerity is more excellent than flattery. Deal so 
plainly with man and woman, as to constrain the utmost sincerity, 
and destroy all hope of trifling with you. It is the highest compli- 
ment you can pay. Their "highest praising," said Milton, "is not 
flattery, and their plainest advice is a kind of praising." 

Ineffable is the union of man and God in every act of the soul. 
The simplest person, who in his integrity worships God, becomes God ; 
yet for ever and ever the influx of this better and universal self is new 
and unsearchable. It inspires awe and astonishment. How dear, 
how soothing to man, arises the idea of God, peopling the lonely place, 
effacing the scars of our mistakes and disappointments! When we 
have broken our god of tradition, and ceased from our god of rhetoric, 
then may God fire the heart with his presence. It is the doubling 
of the heart itself, nay, the infinite enlargement of the heart with a 
power of growth to a new infinity on every side. It inspires in man 
an infallible trust. He has not the conviction, but the sight, that 
the best is the true, and may in that thought easily dismiss all par- 
ticular uncertainties and fears, and adjourn to the sure revelation of 
time, the solution of his private riddles. He is sure that his welfare 
is dear to the heart of being. In the presence of law to his mind, he 
is overflowed with a reliance so universal, that it sweeps away all 
cherished hopes and the most stable projects of mortal condition in 
its flood. He believes that he cannot escape from his good. The 
things that are really for thee gravitate to thee. You are running 
to seek your friend. Let your feet run, but your mind need not. If 
you do not find him, will you not acquiesce that it is best you should 
not find him ? for there is a power, which, as it is in you, is in him also, 
and could therefore very well bring you together, if it were for the 



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best. You are preparing with eagerness to go and render a service 
to which your talent and your taste invite you, the love of men and 
the hope of fame. Has it not occurred to you, that you have no 
right to go, unless you are equally willing to be prevented from going ? 
O, believe, as thou livest, that every sound that is spoken over the 
round world, which thou oughtest to hear, will vibrate on thine ear! 
Every proverb, every book, every byword that belongs to thee for 
aid or comfort, shall surely come home through open or winding 
passages. Every friend whom not thy fantastic will, but the great 
and tender heart in thee craveth, shall lock thee in his embrace. And 
this, because the heart in thee is the heart of all; not a valve, not 
a wall, not an intersection is there anywhere in nature, but one blood 
rolls uninterruptedly an endless circulation through all men, as the 
water of the globe is all one sea, and, truly seen, its tide is one. 

Let man, then, learn the revelation of all nature and all thought 
to his heart; this, namely; that the Highest dwells with him; that 
the sources of nature are in his own mind, if the sentiment of duty 
is there. But if he would know what the great God speaketh, he 
must "go into his closet and shut the door," as Jesus said. God will 
not make himself manifest to cowards. He must greatly listen to 
himself, withdrawing himself from all the accents of other men's 
devotion. Even their prayers are hurtful to him, until he have made 
his own. Our religion vulgarly stands on numbers of believers. 
Whenever the appeal is made — no matter how indirectly — to num- 
bers, proclamation is then and there made, that religion is not. He 
that finds God a sweet, enveloping thought to him never counts his 
company. When I sit in that presence, who shall dare to come in ? 
When I rest in perfect humility, when I burn with pure love, what 
can Calvin or Swedenborg say ? 

It makes no difference whether the appeal is to numbers or to 
one. The faith that stands on authority is not faith. The reliance 
on authority measures the decline of religion, the withdrawal of the 
soul. The position men have given to Jesus, now for many centuries 
of history, is a position of authority. It characterizes themselves. 
It cannot alter the eternal facts. Great is the soul, and plain. It is 
no flatterer, it is no follower; it never appeals from itself. It believes 
in itself. Before the immense possibilities of man, all mere expe- 
rience, all past biography, however spotless and sainted, shrinks 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 377 

away. Before that heaven which our presentiments foreshow us, 
we cannot easily praise any form of life we have seen or read of. We 
not only affirm that we have few great men, but, absolutely speaking, 
that we have none; that we have no history, no record of any char- 
acter or mode of living, that entirely contents us. The saints and 
demigods whom history worships we are constrained to accept with 
a grain of allowance. Though in our lonely hours we draw a new 
strength out of their memory, yet, pressed on our attention, as they 
are by the thoughtless and customary, they fatigue and invade. The 
soul gives itself, alone, original, and pure, to the Lonely, Original, and 
Pure, who, on that condition, gladly inhabits, leads, and speaks 
through it. Then is it glad, young, and nimble. It is not wise, but 
it sees through all things. It is not called religious, but it is innocent. 
It calls the light its own, and feels that the grass grows and the stone 
falls by a law inferior to, and dependent on, its nature. Behold, it 
saith, I am born into the great, the universal mind. I, the imper- 
fect, adore my own Perfect. I am somehow receptive of the great 
soul, and thereby I do overlook the sun and the stars, and feel them 
to be the fair accidents and effects which change and pass. More and 
more the surges of everlasting nature enter into me, and I become 
public and human in my regards and actions. So come I to live in 
thoughts, and act with energies, which are immortal. Thus revering 
the soul, and learning, as the ancient said, that "its beauty is im- 
mense," man will come to see that the world is the perennial miracle 
which the soul worketh, and be less astonished at particular wonders; 
he will learn that there is no profane history; that all history is sacred; 
that the universe is represented in an atom, in a moment of time. 
He will weave no longer a spotted life of shreds and patches, but he 
will live with a divine unity. He will cease from what is base and 
frivolous in his life, and be content with all places and with any 
service he can render. He will calmly front the morrow in the negli- 
gency of that trust which carries God with it, and so hath already the 
whole future in the bottom of the heart. 

NATURE 

There are days which occur in this climate, at almost any season 
of the year, wherein the world reaches its perfection, when the air, the 
heavenly bodies, and the earth, make a harmony, as if nature would 



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indulge her offspring; when, in these bleak upper sides of the planet, 
nothing is to desire that we have heard of the happiest latitudes, and 
we bask in the shining hours of Florida and Cuba; when every thing 
that has life gives sign of satisfaction, and the cattle that lie on the 
ground seem to have great and tranquil thoughts. These halcyons 
may be looked for with a little .more assurance in that pure October 
weather, which we distinguish by the name of the Indian summer. 
The day, immeasurably long, sleeps over the broad hills and warm 
wide fields. To have lived through all its sunny hours, seems 
longevity enough. The solitary places do not seem quite lonely. 
At the gates of the forest, the surprised man of the world is forced to 
leave his city estimates of great and small, wise and foolish. The 
knapsack of custom falls off his back with the first step he makes into 
these precincts. Here is sanctity which shames our religions, and 
reality which discredits our heroes. Here we find nature to be the 
circumstance which dwarfs every other circumstance, and judges 
like a god all men that come to her. We have crept out of our close 
and crowded houses into the night and morning, and we see what 
majestic beauties daily wrap us in their bosom. How willingly we 
would escape the barriers which render them comparatively impo- 
tent, escape the sophistication and second thought, and suffer nature 
to intrance us. The tempered light of the woods is like a perpetual 
morning, and is stimulating and heroic. The anciently reported 
spells of these places creep on us. The stems of pines, hemlocks, and 
oaks, almost gleam like iron on the excited eye. The incommuni- 
cable trees begin to persuade us to live with them, and quit our life 
of solemn trifles. Here no history, or church, or state, is interpolated 
on the divine sky and the immortal year. How easily we might walk 
onward into the opening landscape, absorbed by new pictures, and by 
thoughts fast succeeding each other, until by degrees the recollection 
of home was crowded out of the mind, all memory obliterated by the 
tyranny of the present, and we were led in triumph by nature. 

These enchantments are medicinal, they sober and heal us. 
These are plain pleasures, kindly and native to us. We come to our 
own, and make friends with matter, which the ambitious chatter of the 
schools would persuade us to despise. We never can part with it; 
the mind loves its old home: as water to our thirst, so is the rock, the 
ground, to our eyes, and hands, and feet. It is firm water: it is cold 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 379 

flame: what health, what affinity! Ever an old friend, ever like a 
dear friend and brother, when we chat affectedly with strangers, 
comes in this honest face, and takes a grave liberty with us, and 
shames us out of our nonsense. Cities give not the human senses 
room enough. We go out daily and nightly to feed the eyes on the 
horizon, and require so much scope, just as we need water for our 
bath. There are all degrees of natural influence, from these quaran- 
tine powers of nature, up to her dearest and gravest ministrations to 
the imagination and the soul. There is the bucket of cold water 
from the spring, the wood-fire to which the chilled traveller rushes for 
safety, — and there is the sublime moral of autumn and of noon. We 
nestle in nature, and draw our living as parasites from her roots and 
grains, and we receive glances from the heavenly bodies, which call 
us to solitude, and foretell the remotest future. The blue zenith is 
the point in which romance and reality meet. I think, if we should 
be rapt away into all that we dream of heaven, and should converse 
with Gabriel and Uriel, the upper sky would be all that would remain 
of our furniture. 

It seems as if the day was not wholly profane, in which we have 
given heed to some natural object. The fall of snowflakes in a still 
air, preserving to each crystal its perfect form; the blowing of sleet 
over a wide sheet of water, and over plains; the waving ryefield; the 
mimic waving of acres of houstonia, whose innumerable florets 
whiten and ripple before the eye; the reflections of trees and flowers 
in glassy lakes; the musical steaming odorous south wind, which 
converts all trees to wind-harps; the crackling and spurting of hem- 
lock in the flames; or of pine logs, which yield glory to the walls and 
faces in the sittingroom, — these are the music and pictures of the 
most ancient religion. My house stands in low land, with limited 
outlook, and on the skirt of the village. But I go with my friend to 
the shore of our little river, and with one stroke of the paddle, I leave 
the village politics and personalities, yes, and the world of villages 
and personalities behind, and pass into a delicate realm of sunset and 
moonlight, too bright almost for spotted man to enter without 
noviciate and probation. We penetrate bodily this incredible 
beauty: we dip our hands in this painted element: our eyes are 
bathed in these lights and forms. A holiday, a villeggiatura, a royal 
revel, the proudest, most heart-rejoicing festival that valor and 



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beauty, power and taste, ever decked and enjoyed, establishes itself 
on the instant. These sunset clouds, these delicately emerging stars, 
with their private and ineffable glances, signify it and proffer it. 
I am taught the poorness of our invention, the ugliness of towns and 
palaces. Art and luxury have early learned that they must work as 
enhancement and sequel to this original beauty. I am overinstructed 
for my return. Henceforth I shall be hard to please. I cannot go 
back to toys. I am grown expensive and sophisticated. I can no 
longer live without elegance: but a countryman shall be my master 
of revels. He who knows the most, he who knows what sweets and 
virtues are in the ground, the waters, the plants, the heavens, and 
how to come at these enchantments, is the rich and royal man. Only 
as far as the masters of the world have called in nature to their aid, 
can they reach the height of magnificence. This is the meaning of 
their hanging-gardens, villas, garden-houses, islands, parks, and pre- 
serves, to back their faulty personality with these strong accessories. 
I do not wonder that the landed interest should be invincible in the 
state with these dangerous auxiliaries. These bribe and invite; not 
kings, not palaces, not men, not women, but these tender and poetic 
stars, eloquent of secret promises. We heard what the rich man said, 
we knew of his villa, his grove, his wine, and his company, but the 
provocation and point of the invitation came out of these beguiling 
stars. In their soft glances, I see what men strove to realize in some 
Versailles, or Paphos, or Ctesiphon. Indeed, it is the magical lights 
of the horizon, and the blue sky for the background, which save all 
our works of art, which were otherwise bawbles. When the rich tax 
the poor with servility and obsequiousness, they should consider the 
effect of men reputed to be the possessors of nature, on imaginative 
minds. Ah! if the rich were rich as the poor fancy riches! A boy 
hears a military band play on the field at night, and he has kings and 
queens, and famous chivalry palpably before him. He hears the 
echoes of a horn in a hill country, in the Notch Mountains, for 
example, which converts the mountains into an /Eolian harp, and 
this supernatural tiralira restores to him the Dorian mythology, 
Apollo, Diana, and all divine hunters and huntresses. Can a musical 
note be so lofty, so haughtily beautiful! To the poor young poet, 
thus fabulous is his picture of society; he is loyal; he respects the 
rich; they are rich for the sake of his imagination; how poor his 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 381 

fancy would be, if they were not rich! That they have some high- 
fenced grove, which they call a park; that they live in larger and 
better-garnished saloons than he has visited, and go in coaches, keep- 
ing only the society of the elegant, to watering-places, and to dis- 
tant cities, are the groundwork from which he has delineated estates of 
romance, compared with which their actual possessions are shanties 
and paddocks. The muse herself betrays her son, and enhances the 
gifts of wealth and well-born beauty, by a radiation out of the air, 
and clouds, and forests that skirt the road, — a certain haughty favor, 
as if from patrician genii to patricians, a kind of aristocracy in nature, 
a prince of the power of the air. 

The moral sensibility which makes Edens and Tempes so easily, 
may not be always found, but the material landscape is never far off. 
We can find these enchantments without visiting the Como Lake, 
or the Madeira Islands. We exaggerate the praises of local scenery. 
In every landscape, the point of astonishment is the meeting of the 
sky and the earth, and that is seen from the first hillock as well as 
from the top of the Alleghanies. The stars at night stoop down over 
the brownest, homeliest common, with all the spiritual magnificence 
which they shed on the Campagna, or on the marble desarts of Egypt. 
The uprolled clouds and the colors of morning and evening, will trans- 
figure maples and alders. The difference between landscape and 
landscape is small, but there is great difference in the beholders. 
There is nothing so wonderful in any particular landscape, as the 
necessity of being beautiful under which every landscape lies. Nature 
cannot be surprised in undress. Beauty breaks in everywhere. 

But it is very easy to outrun the sympathy of readers on this 
topic, which schoolmen called natura naturala, or nature passive. 
One can hardly speak directly of it without excess. It is as easy to 
broach in mixed companies what is called "the subject of religion." 
A susceptible person does not like to indulge his tastes in this kind, 
without the apology of some trivial necessity: he goes to see a wood- 
lot, or to look at the crops, or to fetch a plant or a mineral from a 
remote locality, or he carries a fowling-piece, or a fishing-rod. I 
suppose this shame must have a good reason. A dilettantism in 
nature is barren and unworthy. The fop of fields is no better than 
his brother of Broadway. Men are naturally hunters and inquisitive 
of wood-craft, and I suppose that such a gazetteer as wood-cutters 



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and Indians should furnish facts for, would take place in the most 
sumptuous drawing-rooms of all the "Wreaths" and "Flora's chap- 
lets" of the bookshops; yet ordinarily, whether we are too clumsy 
for so subtle a topic, or from whatever cause, as soon as men begin 
to write on nature, they fall into euphuism. Frivolity is a most 
unfit tribute to Pan, who ought to be represented in the mythology 
as the most continent of gods. I would not be frivolous before the 
admirable reserve and prudence of time, yet I cannot renounce the 
right of returning often to this old topic. The multitude of false 
churches accredits the true religion. Literature, poetry, science, are 
the homage of man to this unfathomed secret, concerning which no 
sane man can affect an indifference or incuriosity. Nature is loved 
by what is best in us. It is loved as the city of God, although, or 
rather because there is no citizen. The sunset is unlike anything 
that is underneath it : it wants men. And the beauty of nature must 
always seem unreal and mocking, until the landscape has human 
figures, that are as good as itself. If there were good men, there 
would never be this rapture in nature. If the king is in the palace, 
nobody looks at the walls. It is when he is gone, and the house is 
filled with grooms and gazers, that we turn from the people, to find 
relief in the majestic men that are suggested by the pictures and the 
architecture. The critics who complain of the sickly separation of 
the beauty of nature from the thing to'be done, must consider that 
our hunting of the picturesque is inseparable from our protest against 
false society. Man is fallen; nature is erect, and serves as a differ- 
ential thermometer, detecting the presence or absence of the divine 
sentiment in man. By fault of our dulness and selfishness, we are 
looking up to nature, but when we are convalescent, nature will look 
up to us. We see the foaming brook with compunction: if our own 
life flowed with the right energy, we should shame the brook. The 
stream of zeal sparkles with real fire, and not with reflex rays of sun 
and moon. Nature may be as selfishly studied as trade. Astron- 
omy to the sefish becomes astrology. Psychology, mesmerism (with 
intent to show where our spoons are gone) ; and anatomy and physi- 
ology become phrenology and palmistry. 

But taking timely warning, and leaving many things unsaid on 
this topic, let us not longer omit our homage to the Efficient Nature, 
natura naturans, the quick cause, before which all forms flee as the 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 383 

driven snows, itself secret, its works driven before it in flocks and 
multitudes, (as the ancients represented nature by Proteus, a shep- 
herd,) and in undescribable variety. It publishes itself in creatures, 
reaching from particles and spicula, through transformation on trans- 
formation to the highest symmetries, arriving at consummate results 
without a shock or a leap. A little heat, that is, a little motion, is all 
that differences the bald, dazzling white, and deadly cold poles of the 
earth from the prolific tropical climates. All changes pass without 
violence, by reason of the two cardinal conditions of boundless space 
and boundless time. Geology has initiated us into the secularity of 
nature, and taught us to disuse our dame-school measures, and 
exchange our Mosaic and Ptolemaic schemes for her large style. We 
knew nothing rightly, for want of perspective. Now we learn what 
patient periods must round themselves before the rock is formed, 
then before the rock is broken, and the first lichen race has disinte- 
grated the thinnest external plate into soil, and opened the door for 
the remote Flora, Fauna, Ceres, and Pomona, to come in. How far 
off yet is the trilobite! how far the quadruped! how inconceivably 
remote is man! All duly arrive, and then race after race of men. It 
is a long way from granite to the oyster; farther yet to Plato, and the 
preaching of the immortality of the soul. Yet all must come, as 
surely as the first atom has two sides. 

Motion or change, and identity or rest, are the first and second 
secrets of nature: Motion and Rest. The whole code of her laws 
may be written on the thumbnail, or the signet of a ring. The whirl- 
ing bubble on the surface of a brook, admits us to the secret of the 
mechanics of the sky. Every shell on the beach is a key to it. A 
little water made to rotate in a cup explains the formation of the 
simpler shells; the addition of matter from year to year, arrives at 
last at the most complex forms; and yet so poor is nature with all 
her craft, that, from the beginning to the end of the universe, 
she has but one stuff, — but one stuff with its two ends, to serve up 
all her dream-like variety. Compound it how she will, star, 
sand, fire, water, tree, man, it is still one stuff, and betrays the same 
properties. 

Nature is always consistent, though she feigns to contravene her 
own laws. She keeps her laws, and seems to transcend them. She 
arms and equips an animal to find its place and living in the earth, 



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and, at the same time, she arms and equips another animal to destroy 
it. Space exists to divide creatures; but by clothing the sides of a 
bird with a few feathers, she gives him a petty omnipresence. The 
direction is forever onward, but the artist still goes back for materials, 
and begins again with the first elements on the most advanced stage: 
otherwise, all goes to ruin. If we look at her work, we seem to catch 
a glance of a system in transition. Plants are the young of the world, 
vessels of health and vigor; but they grope ever upward towards 
consciousness; the trees are imperfect men, and seem to bemoan their 
imprisonment, rooted in the ground. The animal is the novice and 
probationer of a more advanced order. The men, though young, 
having tasted the first drop from the cup of thought, are already 
dissipated: the maples and ferns are still uncorrupt; yet no doubt, 
when they come to consciousness, they too will curse and swear. 
Flowers so strictly belong to youth, that we adult men soon come to 
feel, that their beautiful generations concern not us: we have had our 
day; now let the children have theirs. The flowers jilt us, and we 
are old bachelors with our ridiculous tenderness. 

Things are so strictly related, that according to the skill of the 
eye, from any one object the parts and properties of any other may 
be predicted. If we had eyes to see it, a bit of stone from the city 
wall would certify us of the necessity that man must exist, as readily 
as the city. That identity makes us all one, and reduces to nothing 
great intervals on our customary scale. We talk of deviations from 
natural life, as if artificial life were not also natural. The smoothest 
curled courtier in the boudoirs of a palace has an animal nature, rude 
and aboriginal as a white bear, omnipotent to its own ends, and is 
directly related, there amid essences and billetsdoux, to Himmaleh 
mountain-chains, and the axis of the globe. If we consider how 
much we are nature's, we need not be superstitious about towns, as 
if that terrific or benefic force did not find us there also, and fashion 
cities. Nature, who made the mason, made the house. We may 
easily hear too much of rural influences. The cool disengaged air 
of natural objects, makes them enviable to us, chafed and irritable 
creatures with red faces, and we think we shall be as grand as they, 
if we camp out and eat roots; but let us be men instead of wood- 
chucks, and the oak and the elm shall gladly serve us, though we sit 
in chairs of ivory on carpets of silk. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 385 

This guiding identity runs through all the surprises and contrasts 
of the piece, and characterizes every law. Man carries the world 
in his head, the whole astronomy and chemistry suspended in a 
thought. Because the history of nature is charactered in his brain, 
therefore is he the prophet and discoverer of her secrets. Every 
known fact in natural science was divined by the presentiment of 
somebody, before it was actually verified. A man does not tie his 
shoe without recognizing laws which bind the farthest regions of 
nature: moon, plant, gas, crystal, are concrete geometry and num- 
bers. Common sense knows its own, and recognizes the fact at first 
sight in chemical experiment. The common sense of Franklin, 
Dalton, Davy, and Black, is the same common sense which made the 
arrangements which now it discovers. 

If the identity expresses organized rest, the counter action runs 
also into organization. The astronomers said, "Give us matter, and 
a little motion, and we will construct the universe. It is not enough 
that we should have matter, we must also have a single impulse, one 
shove to launch the mass, and generate the harmony of the centrif- 
ugal and centripetal forces. Once heave the ball from the hand, and 
we can show how all this mighty order grew." — "A very unreasonable 
postulate," said the metaphysicians, "and a plain begging of the 
question. Could you not prevail to know the genesis of projection, 
as well as the continuation of it?" Nature, meanwhile, had not 
waited for the discussion, but, right or wrong, bestowed the impulse, 
and the balls rolled. It was no great affair, a mere push, but the 
astronomers were right in making much of it, for there is no end to 
the consequences of the act. That famous aboriginal push propagates 
itself through all the balls of the system, and through every atom of 
every ball, through all the races of creatures, and through the history 
and performances of every individual. Exaggeration is in the course 
of things. Nature sends no creature, no man into the world, with- 
out adding a small excess of his proper quality. Given the planet, 
it is still necessary to add the impulse; so, to every creature nature 
added a little violence of direction in its proper path, a shove to put 
it on its way; in every instance, a slight generosity, a drop too much. 
Without electricity the air would rot, and without this violence of 
direction, which men and women have, without a spice of bigot and 
fanatic, no excitement, no efficiency. We aim above the mark, to 



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hit the mark. Every act hath some falsehood of exaggeration in it. 
And when now and then comes along some sad, sharp-eyed man, 
who sees how paltry a game is played, and refuses to play, but blabs 
the secret; — how then? is the bird flown. O no, the wary Nature 
sends a new troop of fairer forms, of lordlier youths, with a little 
more excess of direction to hold them fast to their several aim; makes 
them a little wrong-headed in that direction in which they are rightest, 
and on goes the game again with new whirl, for a generation or two 
more. The child with his sweet pranks, the fool of his senses, com- 
manded by every sight and sound, without any power to compare and 
rank his sensations, abandoned to a whistle or a painted chip, to a 
lead dragoon, or a gingerbread-dog, individualizing everything, 
generalizing nothing, delighted with every new thing, lies down at 
night overpowered by the fatigue, which this day of continual pretty 
madness has incurred. But Nature has answered her purpose with 
the curly, dimpled lunatic. She has tasked every faculty, and has 
secured the symmetrical growth of the bodily frame, by all these 
attitudes and exertions, — an end of the first importance, which could 
not be trusted to any care less perfect than her own. This glitter, 
this opaline lustre plays round the top of every toy to his eye, to 
insure his fidelity, and he is deceived to his good. We are made alive 
and kept alive by the same arts. Let the stoics say what they please, 
we do not eat for the good of living, but because the meat is savory 
and the appetite is keen. The vegetable life does not content itself 
with casting from the flower or the tree a single seed, but it fills the 
air and earth with a prodigality of seeds, that, if thousands perish, 
thousands may plant themselves, that hundreds may come up, that 
tens may live to maturity, that, at least, one may replace the parent. 
All things betray the same calculated profusion. The excess of fear 
with which the animal frame is hedged round, shrinking from cold, 
starting at sight of a snake, or at a sudden noise, protects us, through 
a multitude of groundless alarms, from some one real danger at last. 
The lover seeks in marriage his private felicity and perfection, with 
no prospective end; and nature hides in his happiness her own end, 
namely, progeny, or the perpetuity of the race. 

But the craft with which the world is made, runs also into the 
mind and character of men. No man is quite sane; each has a vein 
of folly in his composition, a slight determination of blood to the head, 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 387 

to make sure of holding him hard to some one point which nature 
had taken to heart. Great causes are never tried on their merits; 
but the cause is reduced to particulars to suit the size of the partisans, 
and the contention is ever hottest on minor matters. Not less 
remarkable is the overfaith of each man in the importance of what 
he has to do or say. The poet, the prophet, has a higher value for 
what he utters than any hearer, and therefore it gets spoken. The 
strong, self-complacent Luther declares with an emphasis, not to be 
mistaken, that "God himself cannot do without wise men." Jacob 
Behmen and George Fox betray their egotism in the pertinacity of 
their controversial tracts, and James Naylor once suffered himself 
to be worshipped as the Christ. Each prophet comes presently to 
identify himself with his thought, and to esteem his hat and shoes 
sacred. However this may discredit such persons with the judicious, 
it helps them with the people, as it gives heat, pungency, and publicity 
to their words. A similar experience is not infrequent in private life. 
Each young and ardent person writes a diary, in which, when the 
hours of prayer and penitence arrive, he inscribes his soul. The 
pages thus written are, to Him, burning and fragrant: he reads them 
on his knees by midnight and by the morning star; he wets them 
with his tears: they are sacred; too good for the world, and hardly 
yet to be shown to the dearest friend. This is the man-child that is 
born to the soul, and her life still circulates in the babe. The um- 
bilical cord has not yet been cut. After some time has elapsed, he 
begins to wish to admit his friend to this hallowed experience, and 
with hesitation, yet with firmness, exposes the pages to his eye. Will 
they not burn his eyes? The friend coldly turns them over, and 
passes from the writing to conversation, with easy transition, which 
strikes the other party with astonishment and vexation. He cannot 
suspect the writing itself. Days and nights of fervid life, of com- 
munion with angels of darkness and of light, have engraved their 
shadowy characters on that tear-stained book. He suspects the 
intelligence or the heart of his friend. Is there then no friend? 
He cannot yet credit that one may have impressive experience, and 
yet may not know how to put his private fact into literature; and 
perhaps the discovery that wisdom has other tongues and ministers 
than we, that though we should hold our peace, the truth would not 
the less be spoken, might check injuriously the flames of our zeal. 



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A man can only speak, so long as he does not feel his speech to be s 
partial and inadequate. It is partial, but he does not see it to be so, 
whilst he utters it. As soon as he is released from the instinctive and 
particular, and sees its partiality, he shuts his mouth in disgust. 
For, no man can write anything, who does not think that what he 
writes is for the time the history of the world;, or do anything well, 
who does not esteem his work to be of importance. My work may 
be of none, but I must not think it of none, or I shall not do it with 
impunity. 

In like manner, there is throughout nature something mocking, 
something that leads us on and on, but arrives nowhere, keeps no 
faith with us. All promise outruns the performance. We live in a 
system of approximations. Every end is prospective of some other 
end, which is also temporary; a round and final success nowhere. 
We are encamped in nature, not domesticated. Hunger and thirst 
lead us on to eat and to drink; but bread and wine, mix and cook 
them how you will, leave us hungry and thirsty, after the stomach is 
full. It is the same with all our arts and performances. Our music, 
our poetry, our language itself are not satisfactions, but suggestions. 
The hunger for wealth, which reduces the planet to a garden, fools 
the eager pursuer. What is the end sought ? Plainly to secure the 
ends of good sense and beauty, from the intrusion of deformity or 
vulgarity of any kind. But what an operose method! What a train 
of means to secure a little conversation! This palace of brick and 
stone, these servants, this kitchen, these stables, horses and equip- 
age, this bank-stock, and file of mortgages; trade to all the world, 
country-house and cottage by the waterside, all for a little conver- 
sation, high, clear, and spiritual! Could it not be had as well by 
beggars on the highway ? No, all these things came from successive 
efforts of these beggars to remove friction from the wheels of life, and 
give opportunity. Conversation, character, were the avowed ends; 
wealth was good as it appeased the animal cravings, cured the smoky 
chimney, silenced the creaking door, brought friends together in a 
warm and quiet room, and kept the children and the dinner-table 
in a different apartment. Thought, virtue, beauty, were the ends; 
but it was known that men of thought and virtue sometimes had the 
headache, or wet feet, or could lose good time whilst the room was 
getting warm in winter days. Unluckily, in the exertions necessary 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 389 

to remove these inconveniences, the main attention has been diverted 
to this object; the old aims have been lost sight of, and to remove 
friction has come to be the end. That is the ridicule of rich men, 
and Boston, London, Vienna, and now the governments generally of 
the world, are cities and governments of the rich, and the masses 
are not men, but poor men, that is, men who would be rich; this is 
the ridicule of the class, that they arrive with pains and sweat and 
fury nowhere; when all is done, it is for nothing. They are like one 
who has interrupted the conversation of a company to make his 
speech, and now has forgotten what he went to say. The appearance 
strikes the eye everywhere of an aimless society, of aimless nations. 
Were the ends of nature so great and cogent, as to exact this immense 
sacrifice of men ? 

Quite analogous to the deceits in life, there is, as might be 
expected, a similar effect on the eye from the face of external nature. 
There is in woods and waters a certain enticement and flattery, 
together with a failure to yield a present satisfaction. This dis- 
appointment is felt in every landscape. I have seen the softness and 
beauty of the summer-clouds floating feathery overhead, enjoying, as 
it seemed, their height and privilege of motion, whilst yet they 
appeared not so much the drapery of. this place and hour, as fore 
looking to some pavilions and gardens of festivity beyond. It is an 
odd jealousy: but the poet finds himself not near enough to his 
object. The pine-tree, the river, the bank of flowers before him, does 
not seem to be nature. Nature is still elsewhere. This or this is 
but out skirt and far-off reflection and echo of the triumph that has 
passed by, and is now at its glancing splendor and heyday, perchance 
in the neighboring fields, or, if you stand in the field, then in the 
adjacent woods. The present object shall give you this sense of 
stillness that follows a pageant which has just gone by. What 
splendid distance, what recesses of ineffable pomp and loveliness in 
the sunset! But who can go where they are, or lay his hand or plant 
his foot thereon? Off they fall from the round world forever and 
ever. It is the same among the men and women, as among the silent 
trees; always a referred existence, an absence, never a presence and 
satisfaction. Is it, that beauty can never be grasped ? in persons and 
in landscape is equally inaccessible ? The accepted and betrothed 
lover has lost the wildest charm of his maiden in her acceptance of 



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him. She was heaven whilst he pursued her as a star: she cannot be 
heaven, if she stoops to such a one as he. 

What shall we say of this omnipresent appearance of that first 
projectile impulse, of this flattery and balking of so many well- 
meaning creatures? Must we not suppose somewhere in the uni- 
verse a slight treachery and derision ? Are we not engaged to a serious 
resentment of this use that is made of us ? Are we tickled trout, and 
fools of nature? One look at the face of heaven and earth lays all 
petulance at rest, and soothes us to wiser convictions. To the intelli- 
gent, nature converts itself into a vast promise, and will not be rashly 
explained. Her secret is untold. Many and many an (Edipus 
arrives: he has the whole mystery teeming in his brain. Alas! the 
same sorcery has spoiled his skill; no syllable can he shape on his 
lips. Her mighty orbit vaults like the fresh rainbow into the deep, 
but no archangel's wing was yet strong enough to follow it, and report 
of the return of the curve. But it also appears, that our actions are 
seconded and disposed to greater conclusions than we designed. We 
are escorted on every hand through life by spiritual agents, and a 
beneficent purpose lies in wait for us. We cannot bandy words with 
nature, or deal with her as we deal with persons. If we measure our 
individual forces against hers, we may easily feel as if we were the 
sport of an insuperable destiny. But if, instead of identifying our- 
selves with the work, we feel that the soul of the workman streams 
through us, we shall find the peace of the morning dwelling first in 
our hearts, and the fathomless powers of gravity and chemistry, and, 
over them, of life, preexisting within us in their highest form. 

The uneasiness which the thought of our helplessness in the chain 
of causes occasions us, results from looking too much at one condition 
of nature, namely, Motion. But the drag is never taken from the 
wheel. Wherever the impulse exceeds, the Rest or Identity insin- 
uates its compensation. All over the wide fields of earth grows the 
prunella or self-heal. After every foolish day we sleep off the fumes 
and furies of its hours; and though we are always engaged with par- 
ticulars, and often enslaved to them, we bring with us to every experi- 
ment the innate universal laws. These, while they exist in the mind as 
ideas, stand around us in nature forever embodied, a present sanity 
to expose and cure the insanity of men. Our servitude to particulars 
betrays us into a hundred foolish expectations. We anticipate a new 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 391 

era from the invention of a locomotive, or a balloon; the new engine 
brings with it the old checks. They say that by electro-magnetism, 
your salad shall be grown from the seed, whilst your fowl is roasting 
for dinner: it is a symbol of our modern aims and endeavors, — of our 
condensation and acceleration of objects: but nothing is gained: 
nature cannot be cheated: man's life is but seventy salads long, 
grow they swift or grow they slow. In these checks and impossi- 
bilities, however, we find our advantage, not less than in the impulses. 
Let the victory fall where it will, we are on that side. And the 
knowledge that we traverse the whole scale of being, from the centre 
to the poles of nature, and have some stake in every possibility, lends 
that sublime lustre to death, which philosophy and religion have too 
outwardly and literally striven to express in the popular doctrine of 
the immortality of the soul. The reality is more excellent than the 
report. Here is no ruin, no discontinuity, no spent ball. The divine 
circulations never rest nor linger. Nature is the incarnation of a 
thought, and turns to a thought again, as ice becomes water and gas. 
The world is mind precipitated, and the volatile essence is forever 
escaping again into the state of free thought. Hence the virtue and 
pungency of the influence on the mind, of natural objects, whether 
inorganic or organized. Man imprisoned, man crystallized, man 
vegetative, speaks to man impersonated. That power which does not 
respect quantity, which makes the whole and the particle its equal 
channel, delegates its smile to the morning, and distils its essence into 
every drop of rain. Every moment instructs, and every object: 
for wisdom is infused into every form. It has been poured into us as 
blood; it convulsed us as pain; it slid into us as pleasure; it envel- 
oped us in dull, melancholy days, or in days of cheerful labor; we 
did not guess its essence, until after a long time. 

BEHAVIOR 

The soul which animates Nature is not less significantly published 
in the figure, movement, and gesture of animated bodies, than in its 
last vehicle of articulate speech. This silent and subtile language is 
Manners; not what, but how. Life expresses. A statue has no 
tongue, and needs none. Good tableaux do not need declamation. 
Nature tells every secret once. Yes, but in man she tells it all the 
time, by form, attitude, gesture, mien, face, and parts of the face, and 



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by the whole action of the machine. The visible carriage or action 
of the individual, as resulting from his organization and his will com- 
bined, we call manners. What are they but thought entering the 
hands and feet, controlling the movements of the body, the speech 
and behavior ? 

There is always a best way of doing everything, if it be to boil 
an egg. Manners are the happy ways of doing things; each once 
a stroke of genius or of love, — now repeated and hardened into usage. 
They form at last a rich varnish, with which the routine of life is 
washed, and its details adorned. If they are superficial, so are the 
dew-drops which give such a depth to the morning meadows. Man- 
ners are very communicable: men catch them from each other. 
Consuelo, in the romance, boasts of the lessons she had given the 
nobles in manners, on the stage; and, in real life, Talma taught 
Napoleon the arts of behavior. Genius invents fine manners, which 
the baron and the baroness copy very fast, and, by the advantage 
of a palace, better the instruction. They stereotype the lesson they 
have learned into a mode. 

The power of manners is incessant, — an element as unconcealable 
as fire. The nobility cannot in any country be disguised, and no more 
in a republic or a democracy, than in a kingdom. No man can resist 
their influence. There are certain manners which are learned in 
good society, of that force, that, if a person have them, he or she must 
be considered, and is everywhere welcome, though without beauty, 
or wealth, or genius. Give a boy address and accomplishments, and 
you give him the mastery of palaces and fortunes where he goes. He 
has not the trouble of earning or owning them; they solicit him to 
enter and possess. We send girls of a timid, retreating disposition 
to the boarding-school, to the riding-school, to the ballroom, or 
wheresoever they can come into acquaintance and nearness of lead- 
ing persons of their own sex; where they might learn address, and 
see it near at hand. The power of a woman of fashion to lead, and 
also to daunt and repel, derives from their belief that she knows 
resources and behaviors not known to them; but when these have 
mastered her secret, they learn to confront her, and recover their 
self-possession. 

Every day bears witness to their gentle rule. People who would 
obtrude, now do not obtrude. The mediocre circle learns to demand 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 393 

that which belongs to a high state of nature or of culture. Your 
manners are always under examination, and by committees little 
suspected, — a police in citizens' clothes, — but are awarding or deny- 
ing you very high prizes when you least think of it. 

We talk much of utilities, — but 't is our manners that associate 
us. In hours of business, we go to him who knows, or has, or does 
this or that which we want, and we do not let our taste or feeling 
stand in the way. But this activity over, we return to the indolent 
state, and wish for those we can be at ease with; those who will go 
where we go, whose manners do not offend us, whose social tone 
chimes with ours. When we reflect on their persuasive and cheering 
force; how they recommend, prepare, and draw people together; 
how, in all clubs, manners make the members; how manners make 
the fortune of the ambitious youth; that, for the most part, his 
manners marry him, and, for the most part, he marries manners; 
when we think what keys they are, and to what secrets; what high 
lessons and inspiring tokens of character they convey; and what 
divination is required in us, for the reading of this fine telegraph, 
we see what range the subject has, and what relations to convenience, 
power, and beauty. 

Their first service is very low, — when they are the minor morals: 
but 't is the beginning of civility, — to make us, I mean, endurable 
to each other. We prize them for their rough-plastic, abstergent 
force; to get people out of the quadruped state; to get them washed, 
clothed, and set up on end; to slough their animal husks and habits; 
compel them to be clean; overawe their spite and meanness, teach 
them to stifle the base, and choose the generous expression, and make 
them know how much happier the generous behaviors are. 

Bad behavior the laws cannot reach. Society is infested with 
rude, cynical, restless, and frivolous persons who prey upon the rest, 
and whom a public opinion concentrated into good manners, forms 
accepted by the sense of all, can reach: — the contradictors and railers 
at public and private tables, who are like terriers, who conceive it the 
duty of a dog of honor to growl at any passer-by, and do the honors 
of the house by barking him out of sight: — I have seen men who 
neigh like a horse when you contradict them, or say something which 
they do not understand: — then the overbold, who make their own 
invitation to your hearth; the persevering talker, who gives you his 



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society in large, saturating doses ;, the pitiers of themselves, — a peril- 
ous class; the frivolous Asmodeus, who relies on you to find him in 
ropes of sand to twist; the monotones; in short, every stripe of 
absurdity; — these are social inflictions which the magistrate cannot 
cure or defend you from, and which must be intrusted to the restrain- 
ing force of custom, and proverbs, and familiar rules of behavior 
impressed on young people in their school-days. 

In the hotels on the banks of the Mississippi, they print, or used 
to print, among the rules of the house, that "no gentleman can be 
permitted to come to the public table without his coat;" and in the 
same country, in the pews of the churches, little placards plead with 
the worshipper against the fury of expectoration. Charles Dickens 
self-sacrificingly undertook the reformation of our American manners 
in unspeakable particulars. I think the lesson was not quite lost; 
that it held bad manners up, so that the churls could see the deformity. 
Unhappily, the book had its own deformities. It ought not to need 
to print in a reading-room a caution to strangers not to speak loud; 
nor to persons who look over fine engravings, that they should be 
handled like cobwebs and butterflies' wings; nor to persons who look 
at marble statues, that they shall not smite them with canes. But, 
even in the perfect civilization of this city, such cautions are not quite 
needless in the Athenaeum and City Library. 

Manners are factitious, and grow out of circumstance as well as 
out of character. If you look at the pictures of patricians and of 
peasants, of different periods and countries, you will see how well 
they match the same classes in our towns. The modern aristocrat 
not only is well drawn in Titian's Venetian doges, and in Roman 
coins and statues, but also in the pictures which Commodore Perry 
brought home of dignitaries in Japan. Broad lands and great inter- 
ests not only arrive to such heads as can manage them, but form 
manners of power. A keen eye, too, will see nice gradations of rank, 
or see in the manners the degree of homage the party is wont to 
receive. A prince who is accustomed every day to be courted and 
deferred to by the highest grandees, acquires a corresponding expec- 
tation, and a becoming mode of receiving and replying to this homage. 

There are always exceptional people and modes. English grandees 
affect to be farmers. Claverhouse is a fop, and, under the finish of 
dress, and levity of behavior, hides the terror of his war. But Nature 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 395 

and Destiny are honest, and never fail to leave their mark, to hang 
out a sign for each and for every quality. It is much to conquer one's 
face, and perhaps the ambitious youth thinks he has got the whole 
secret when he has learned, that disengaged manners are commanding. 
Don't be deceived by a facile exterior. Tender men sometimes have 
strong wills. We had, in Massachusetts, an old statesman, who had 
sat all his life in courts and in chairs of state, without overcoming an 
extreme irritability of face, voice, and bearing: when he spoke, his 
voice would not serve him; it cracked, it broke, it wheezed, it piped; 
— little cared he; he knew that it had got to pipe, or wheeze, or 
screech his argument and his indignation. When he sat down, after 
speaking, he seemed in a sort of fit, and held on to his chair with both 
hands: but underneath all this irritability, was a puissant will, firm, 
and advancing, and a memory in which lay in order and method like 
geologic strata every fact of his history, and under the control of 
his will. 

Manners are partly factitious, but, mainly, there must be 
capacity for culture in the blood. Else all culture is vain. The 
obstinate prejudice in favor of blood, which lies at the base of the 
feudal and monarchical fabrics of the Old World, has some reason in 
common experience. Every man, — mathematician, artist, soldier, 
or merchant, — looks with confidence for some traits and talents in his 
own child, which he would not dare to presume in the child of a 
stranger. The Orientalists are very orthodox on this point. "Take 
a thorn-bush," said the emir Abdel-Kader, "and sprinkle it for a 
whole year with water;— it will yield nothing but thorns. Take 
a date-tree, leave it without culture, and it will always produce dates. 
Nobility is the date-tree, and the Arab populace is a bush of thorns." 

A main fact in the history of manners is the wonderful expressive- 
ness of the human body. If it were made of glass, or of air, and the 
thoughts were written on steel tablets within, it could not publish 
more truly its meaning than now. Wise men read very sharply all 
your private history in your look and gait and behavior. The whole 
economy of nature is bent on expression. The tell-tale body is all 
tongues. Men are like Geneva watches with crystal faces which 
expose the whole movement. They carry the liquor of life flowing 
up and down in these beautiful bottles, and announcing to the curious 
how it is with them. The face and eyes reveal what the spirit is 



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doing, how old it is, what aims it has. The eyes indicate the antiquity 
of the soul, or, through how many forms it has already ascended. It 
almost violates the proprieties, if we say above the breath here, what 
the confessing eyes do not hesitate to utter to every street passenger. 

Man cannot fix his eye on the sun, and so far seems imperfect. 
In Siberia, a late traveller found men who could see the satellites of 
Jupiter with their unarmed eye. In some respects the animals excel 
us. The birds have a longer sight, beside the advantage by their 
wings of a higher observatory. A cow can bid her calf, by secret 
signal, probably of the eye, to run away, or to lie down and hide itself. 
The jockeys say of certain horses, that " they look over the whole 
ground." The out-door life, and hunting, and labor, give equal 
vigor to the human eye. A farmer looks out at you as strong as the 
horse; his eye-beam is like the stroke of a staff . An eye can threaten 
like a loaded and levelled gun, or can insult like hissing or kicking; 
or, in its altered mood, by beams of kindness, it can make the heart 
dance with joy. 

The eye obeys exactly the action of the mind. When a thought 
strikes us, the eyes fix, and remain gazing at a distance; in enumer- 
ating the names of persons or of countries, as France, Germany, 
Spain, Turkey, the eyes wink at each new name. There is no nicety 
of learning sought by the mind, which the eyes do not vie in acquir- 
ing. "An artist," said Michel Angelo, "must have his measuring 
tools not in the hand, but in the eye;" and there is no end to the 
catalogue of its performances, whether in indolent vision, (that of 
health and beauty,) or in strained vision, (that of art and labor.) 

Eyes are bold as lions, — roving, running, leaping, here and there, 
far and near. They speak all languages. They wait for no intro- 
duction; they are no Englishmen; ask no leave of age, or rank; they 
respect neither poverty nor riches, neither learning nor power, nor 
virtue, nor sex, but intrude, and come again, and go through arid 
through you, in a moment of time. What inundation of life and 
thought is discharged from one soul into another, through them! 
The glance is natural magic. The mysterious communication estab- 
lished across a house between two entire strangers, moves all the 
springs of wonder. The communication by the glance is in the 
greatest part not subject to the control of the will. It is the bodily 
symbol of identity of nature. We look into the eyes to know if this 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 397 

other form is another self, and the eyes will not lie, but make a faith- 
ful confession what inhabitant is there. The revelations are some- 
times terrific. The confession of a low, usurping devil is there made, 
and the observer shall seem to feel the stirring of owls, and bats, and 
horned hoofs, where he looked for innocence and simplicity. 'T is 
remarkable, too, that the spirit that appears at the windows of the 
house does at once invest himself in a new form of his own, to the 
mind of the beholder. 

The eyes of men converse as much as their tongues, with the 
advantage, that the ocular dialect needs no dictionary, but is under- 
stood all the world over. When the eyes say one thing, and the 
tongue another, a practised man relies on the language of the first. 
If the man is off his centre, the eyes show it. You can read in the 
eyes of your companion, whether your argument hits him, though 
his tongue will not confess it. There is a look by which a man shows 
he is going to say a good thing, and a look when he has said it. Vain 
and forgotten are all the fine offers and offices of hospitality, if there 
is no holiday in the eye. How many furtive inclinations avowed 
by the eye, though dissembled by the lips! One comes away from 
a company, in which, it may easily happen, he has said nothing, and 
no important remark has been addressed to him, and yet, if in sym- 
pathy with the society, he shall not have a sense of this fact, such 
a stream of life has been flowing into him, and out from him, through 
the eyes. There are eyes, to be sure, that give no more admission 
into the man than blueberries. Others are liquid and deep, — wells 
that a man might fall into; — others are aggressive and devouring, seem 
to call out the police, take all too much notice, and require crowded 
Broadways, and the security of millions, to protect individuals against 
them. The military eye I meet, now darkly sparkling under clerical, 
now under rustic brows. 'Tis the city of Lacedaemon; 't is a stack of 
bayonets. There are asking eyes, asserting eyes, prowling eyes; 
and eyes full of fate, — some of good, and some of sinister omen. The 
alleged power to charm down insanity, or ferocity in beasts, is a power 
behind the eye. It must be a victory achieved in the will, before it 
can be signified in the eye. It is very certain that each man carries 
in his eye the exact indication of his rank in the immense scale of 
men, and we are always learning to read it. A complete man should 
need no auxiliaries to his personal presence. Whoever looked on 



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him would consent to his will, being certified that his aims were 
generous and universal. The reason why men do not obey us, is 
because they see the mud at the bottom of our eye. 

If the organ of sight is such a vehicle of power, the other features 
have their own. A man finds room in the few square inches of the 
face for the traits of all his ancestors; for the expression of all his 
history, and his wants. The sculptor, and Winckelmann, and 
Lavater, will tell you how significant a feature is the nose; how its 
forms express strength or weakness of will, and good or bad temper. 
The nose of Julius Caesar, of Dante, and of Pitt, suggest " the terrors 
of the beak." What refinement, and what limitations, the teeth 
betray! "Beware you don't laugh," said the wise mother, "for then 
you show all your faults." 

Balzac left in manuscript a chapter, which he called "Theorie 
de la demarche," in which he says: "The look, the voice, the respira- 
tion, and the attitude or walk, are identical. But, as it has not been 
given to man, the power to stand guard, at once, over these four 
different simultaneous expressions of his thought, watch that one 
which speaks out the truth, and you will know the whole man." 

Palaces interest us mainly in the exhibition of manners, which, 
in the idle and expensive society dwelling in them, are raised to a high 
art. The maxim of courts is, that manner is power. A calm and reso- 
lute bearing, a polished speech, an embellishment of trifles, and the 
art of hiding all uncomfortable feeling, are essential to the courtier: 
and Saint Simon, and Cardinal de Retz, and Rcederer, and an ency- 
clopaedia of Memoires will instruct you, if you wish, in those potent 
secrets. Thus, it is a point of pride with kings, to remember faces and 
names. It is reported of one prince, that his head had the air of 
leaning downwards, in order not to humble the crowd. There are 
people who come in ever like a child with a piece of good news. It 
was said of the later Lord Holland, that he always came down to 
breakfast with the air of a man who had just met with some signal 
good-fortune. In "Notre Dame," the grandee took his place on the 
dais, with the look of one who is thinking of something else. But 
we must not peep and eavesdrop at palace-doors. 

Fine manners need the support of fine manners in others. A 
scholar may be a well-bred man, or he may not. The enthusiast is 
introduced to polished scholars in society, and is chilled and silenced 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 399 

by finding himself not in their element. They all have somewhat 
which he has not, and, it seems, ought to have. But if he finds the 
scholar apart from his companions, it is then the enthusiast's turn, 
and the scholar has no defence, but must deal on his terms. Now 
they must fight the battle out on their private strengths. What is 
the talent of that character so common, — the successful man of the 
world, — in all marts, senates, and drawing-rooms? Manners: 
manners of power; sense to see his advantage, and manners up to it. 
See him approach his man. He knows that troops behave as they 
are handled at first; — that is his cheap secret; just what happens 
to every two persons who meet on any affair, — one instantly per- 
ceives that he has the key of the situation, that his will compre- 
hends the other's will, as the cat does the mouse; and he has only to 
use courtesy, and furnish good-natured reasons to his victim to cover 
up the chain, lest he be shamed into resistance. 

The theatre in which this science of manners has a formal impor- 
tance is not with us a court, but dress-circles, wherein, after the close 
of the day's business,' men and women meet at leisure, for mutual 
entertainment, in ornamented drawing-rooms. Of course, it has 
every variety of attraction and merit; but, to earnest persons, to 
youths or maidens who have great objects at heart, we cannot extol 
it highly. A well-dressed, talkative company, where each is bent to 
amuse the other, — yet the high-born Turk who came hither fancied 
that every woman seemed to be suffering for a chair; that all the 
talkers were brained and exhausted by the deoxygenated air: it 
spoiled the best persons: it put all on stilts. Yet here are the secret 
biographies written and read. The aspect of that man is repulsive; 
I do not wish to deal with him. The other is irritable, shy, and on 
his guard. The youth looks humble and manly: I choose him. 
Look on this woman. There is not beauty, nor brilliant sayings, nor 
distinguished power to serve you; but all see her gladly; her whole 
air and impression are healthful. Here come the sentimentalists, 
and the invalids. Here is Elise, who caught cold in coming into the 
world, and has always increased it since. Here are creep-mouse 
manners; and thievish manners. "Look at Northcote," said Fuseli; 
"he looks like a rat that has seen a cat." In the shallow company, 
easily excited, easily tired, here is the columnar Bernard: the Alle- 
ghanies do not express more repose than his behavior. Here are the 



4 oo AMERICAN PROSE 



sweet following eyes of Cecile: it seemed always that she demanded 
the heart. Nothing can be more excellent in kind than the Corinthian 
grace of Gertrude's manners, and yet Blanche, who has no manners, 
has better manners than she; for the movements of Blanche are the 
sallies of a spirit which is sufficient for the moment, and she can afford 
to express every thought by instant action. 

Manners have been somewhat cynically defined to be a con- 
trivance of wise men to keep fools at a distance. Fashion is shrewd 
to detect those who do not belong to her train, and seldom wastes 
her attentions. Society is very swift in its instincts, and, if you do 
not belong to it, resists and sneers at you; or quietly drops you. 
The first weapon enrages the party attacked; the second is still more 
effective, but is not to be resisted, as the date of the transaction is not 
easily found. People grow up and grow old under this infliction, and 
never suspect the truth, ascribing the solitude which acts on them 
very injuriously, to any cause but the right one. 

The basis of good manners is self-reliance. Necessity is the law 
of all who are not self-possessed. Those who are not self-possessed, 
obtrude, and pain us. Some men appear to feel that they belong to 
a Pariah caste. They fear to offend, they bend and apologize, and 
walk through life with a timid step. As we sometimes dream that 
we are in a well-dressed company without any coat, so Godfrey acts 
ever as if he suffered from some mortifying circumstance. The hero 
should find himself at home, wherever he is; should impart comfort 
by his own security and good-nature to all beholders. The hero is 
suffered to be himself. A person of strong mind comes to perceive 
that for him an immunity is secured so long as he renders to society 
that service which is native and proper to him, — an immunity from 
all the observances, yea, and duties, which society so tyrannically 
imposes on the rank and file of its members. "Euripides," says 
Aspasia, "has not the fine manners of Sophocles; but," — she adds 
good-humoredly, "the movers and masters of our souls have surely 
a right to throw out their limbs as carelessly as they please, on the 
world that belongs to them, and before the creatures they have 
animated." 

Manners require time, as nothing is more vulgar than haste. 
Friendship should be surrounded with ceremonies and respects, and 
not crushed into corners. Friendship requires more time than poor 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 401 

busy men can usually command. Here comes to me Roland, with 
a delicacy of sentiment leading and enwrapping him like a divine 
cloud or holy ghost. 'T is a great destitution to both that this should 
not be entertained with large leisures, but contrariwise should be 
balked by importunate affairs. 

But through this lustrous varnish, the reality is ever shining. 
'Tis hard to keep the what from breaking through this pretty painting 
of the how. The core will come to the surface. Strong will and keen 
perception overpower old manners, and create new; and the thought 
of the present moment has a greater value than all the past. In 
persons of character, we do not remark manners, because of their 
instantaneousness. We are surprised by the thing done, out of all 
power to watch the way of it. Yet nothing is more charming than 
to recognize the great style which runs through the actions of such. 
People masquerade before us in their fortunes, titles, offices, and 
connections, as academic or civil presidents, or senators, or professors, 
or great lawyers, and impose on the frivolous, and a good deal on each 
other, by these fames. At least, it is a point of prudent good man- 
ners to treat these reputations tenderly, as if they were merited. But 
the sad realist knows these fellows at a glance, and they know him; 
as when in Paris the chief of the police enters a ballroom, so many 
diamonded pretenders shrink and make themselves as inconspicuous 
as they can, or give him a supplicating look as they pass. "I had 
received," said a sibyl, "I had received at birth the fatal gift of 
penetration": — and these Cassandras are always born. 

Manners impress as they indicate real power. A man who is 
sure of his point, carries a broad and contented expression, which 
everybody reads. And you cannot rightly train one to an air and 
manner, except by making him the kind of man of whom that manner 
is the natural expression. Nature forever puts a premium on reality. 
What is done for effect, is seen to be done for effect; what is done for 
love, is felt to be done for love. A man inspires affection and honor, 
because he was not lying in wait for these. The things of a man for 
which we visit him, were done in the dark and cold. A little integrity 
is better than any career. So deep are the sources of this surface- 
action, that even the size of your companion seems to vary with his 
freedom of thought. Not only is he larger, when at ease, and his 
thoughts generous, but everything around him becomes variable with 



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expression. No carpenter's rule, no rod and chain, will measure the 
dimensions of any house or house-lot: go into the house: if the pro- 
prietor is constrained and deferring, 't is of no importance how large 
his house, how beautiful his grounds, — you quickly come to the end 
of all: but if the man is self-possessed, happy and at home, his house 
is deep-founded, indefinitely large and interesting, the roof and dome 
buoyant as the sky. Under the humblest roof, the commonest per- 
son in plain clothes sits there massive, cheerful, yet formidable like 
the Egyptian colossi. 

Neither Aristotle, nor Leibnitz, nor Junius, nor Champollion 
has set down the grammar-rules of this dialect, older than Sanscrit; 
but they who cannot yet read English, can read this. Men take each 
other's measure, when they meet for the first time, — and every time 
they meet. How do they get this rapid knowledge, even before they 
speak, of each other's power and dispositions ? One would say, that 
the persuasion of their speech is not in what they say, — or, that men 
do not convince by their argument, — but by their personality, by who 
they are, and what they said and did heretofore. A man already 
strong is listened to, and everything he says is applauded. Another 
opposes him with sound argument, but the argument is scouted, until 
by and by it gets into the mind of some weighty person; then it 
begins to tell on the community. 

Self-reliance is the basis of behavior, as it is the guaranty that 
the powers are not squandered in too much demonstration. In this 
country, where school education is universal, we have a superficial 
culture, and a profusion of reading and writing and expression. We 
parade our nobilities in poems and orations, instead of working them 
up into happiness. There is a whisper out of the ages to him who can 
understand it, — "whatever is known to thyself alone, has always 
very great value." There is some reason to believe, that, when a man 
does not write his poetry, it escapes by other vents through him, 
instead of the one vent of writing; clings to his form and manners, 
whilst poets have often nothing poetical about them except their 
verses. Jacobi said, that "when a man has fully expressed his 
• thought, he has somewhat less possession of it." One would say, the 
rule is, — What a man is irresistibly urged to say, helps him and us. 
In explaining his thought to others, he explains it to himself: but 
when he opens it for show, it corrupts him. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 403 

Society is the stage on which manners are shown; novels are their 
literature. Novels are the journal or record of manners, and the 
new importance of these books derives from the fact, that the novelist 
begins to penetrate the surface, and treat this part of life more 
worthily. The novels used to be all alike, and had a quite vulgar 
tone. The novels used to lead us on to a foolish interest in the 
fortunes of the boy and girl they described. The boy was to be 
raised from a humble to a high position. He was in want of a 
wife and a castle, and the object of the story was to supply him 
with one or both. We watched sympathetically, step by step, his 
climbing, until, at last, the point is gained, the wedding day is 
fixed, and we follow the gala procession home to the castle, when 
the doors are slammed in our face, and the poor reader is left out- 
side in the cold, not enriched by so much as an idea, or a virtuous 
impulse. 

But the victories of character are instant, and victories for all. 
Its greatness enlarges all. We are fortified by every heroic anecdote. 
The novels are as useful as Bibles, if they teach you the secret, that 
the best of life is conversation, and the greatest success is confidence, 
or perfect understanding between sincere people. 'T is a French 
definition of friendship, Hen que s' entendre, good understanding. 
The highest compact we can make with our fellow is, — "Let there 
be truth between us two forevermore." That is the charm in all 
good novels, as it is the charm in all good histories, that the heroes 
mutually understand, from the first, and deal loyaUy, and with a pro- 
found trust in each other. It is sublime to feel and say of another, 
I need never meet, or speak, or write to him: we need not reinforce 
ourselves, or send tokens of remembrance: I rely on him as on myself: 
if he did thus or thus, I know it was right. 

In all the superior people I have met, I notice directness, truth 
spoken more truly, as if everything of obstruction, of malformation, 
had been trained away. What have they to conceal ? What have 
they to exhibit ? Between simple and noble persons there is always 
a quick intelligence: they recognize at sight, and meet on a better 
ground than the talents and skills they may chance to possess, namely, 
on sincerity and uprightness. For, it is not what talents or genius 
a man has, but how he is to his talents, that constitutes friendship and 
character. The man that stands by himself, the universe stands by 



404 AMERICAN PROSE 



him also. It is related of the monk Basle, that, being excommuni- 
cated by the Pope, he was, at his death, sent in charge of an angel to 
find a fit place of suffering in hell; but, such was the eloquence and 
good-humor of the monk, that, wherever he went he was received 
gladly, and civilly treated, even by the most uncivil angels: and, 
when he came to discourse with them, instead of contradicting or 
forcing him, they took his part, and adopted his manners: and even 
good angels came from far, to see hirn, and take up their abode with 
him. The angel that was sent to find a place of torment for him, 
attempted to remove him to a worse pit, but with no better success; 
for such was the contented spirit of the monk, that he found some- 
thing to praise in every place and company, though in hell, and made 
a kind of heaven of it. At last the escorting angel returned with his 
prisoner to them that sent him, saying, that no phlegethon could be 
found that would burn him; for that, in whatever condition, Basle 
remained incorrigibly Basle. The legend says, his sentence was 
remitted, and he was allowed to go into heaven, and was canonized 
as a saint. 

There is a stroke of magnanimity in the correspondence of Bona- 
parte with his brother Joseph, when the latter was King of Spain, and 
complained that he missed in Napoleon's letters the affectionate tone 
which had marked their childish correspondence. "I am sorry," 
replies Napoleon, "you think you shall find your brother again only 
in the Elysian Fields. It is natural, that at forty, he should not feel 
towards you as he did at twelve. But his feelings towards you have 
greater truth and strength. His friendship has the features of his 
mind." 

How much we forgive to those who yield us the rare spectacle of 
heroic manners! We will pardon them the want of books, of arts, 
and even of the gentler virtues. How tenaciously we remember 
them! Here is a lesson which I brought along with me in boyhood 
from the Latin School, and which ranks with the best of Roman 
anecdotes. Marcus Scaurus was accused by Quintus Varius His- 
panus, that he had excited the allies to take arms against the Republic. 
But he, full of firmness and gravity, defended himself in this manner: 
"Quintus Varius Hispanus aUeges that Marcus Scaurus, President 
of the Senate, excited the allies to arms: Marcus Scaurus, President 
of the Senate, denies it. There is no witness. Which do you believe, 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 405 

Romans?" "Utri creditis, Quiriles?" When he had said these 
words, he was absolved by the assembly of the people. 

I have seen manners that make a similar impression with per- 
sonal beauty; that give the like exhilaration, and refine us like that; 
and, in memorable experiences, they are suddenly better than beauty, 
and make that superfluous and ugly. But they must be marked by 
fine perception, the acquaintance with real beauty. They must 
always show self-control: you shall not be facile, apologetic, or leaky, 
but king over your word; and every gesture and action shall indicate 
power at rest. Then they must be inspired by the good heart. 
There is no beautifier of complexion, or form, or behavior, like the 
wish to scatter joy and not pain around us. It is good to give a 
stranger a meal, or a night's lodging. It is better to be hospitable 
to his good meaning and thought, and give courage to a companion. 
We must be as courteous to a man as we are to a picture, which we 
are willing to give the advantage of a good light. Special precepts 
are not to be thought of: the talent of well-doing contains them all. 
Every hour will show a duty as paramount as that of my whim just 
now; and yet I will write it, — that there is one topic peremptorily 
forbidden to all well-bred, to all rational mortals, namely, their dis- 
tempers. If you have not slept, or if you have slept, or if you have 
headache, or sciatica, or leprosy, or thunder-stroke, I beseech you, 
by all angels, to hold your peace, and not pollute the morning, to 
which all the housemates bring serene and pleasant thoughts, by 
corruption and groans. Come out of the azure. Love the day. Do 
not leave the sky out of your landscape. The oldest and the most 
deserving person should come very modestly into any newly awaked 
company, respecting the divine communications, out of which all 
must be presumed to have newly come. An old man who added an 
elevating culture to a large experience of life, said to me, "When you 
come into the room, I think I will study how to make humanity 
beautiful to you." 

As respects the delicate question of culture, I do not think that 
any other than negative rules can be laid down. For positive rules, 
for suggestion, Nature alone inspires it. Who dare assume to guide 
a youth, a maid, to perfect manners ? — the golden mean is so deli- 
cate, difficult, — say frankly, unattainable. What finest hands 
would not be clumsy to sketch the ■ genial precepts of the young 



406 AMERICAN PROSE 



girl's demeanor? The chances seem infinite against success; and 
yet success is continually attained. There must not be secondariness, 
and 't is a thousand to one that her air and manner will at once 
betray that she is not primary, but that there is some other one or 
many of her class, to whom she habitually postpones herself. But 
Nature lifts her easily, and without knowing it, over these impossi- 
bilities, and we are continually surprised with graces and felicities 
not only unteachable, but undescribable. , 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

THE MINISTER'S BLACK VEIL 

A PARABLE 

The sexton stood in the porch of Milford meeting house, pulling 
busily at the bell rope. The old people of the village came stooping 
along the street. Children with bright faces, tripped merrily beside 
their parents, or mimicked a graver gait, in the conscious dignity of 
their Sunday clothes. Spruce bachelors looked sidelong at the 
pretty maidens, and fancied that, the Sabbath sunshine made them 
prettier than on week days. When the throng had mostly streamed 
into the porch, the sexton began to toll the bell, keeping his eye on 
the Reverend Mr. Hooper's door. The first glimpse of the clergy- 
man's figure, was the signal for the bell to cease its summons. 

"But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his face?" cried 
the sexton in astonishment. 

All within hearing immediately turned about, and beheld the 
semblance of Mr. Hooper, pacing slowly his meditative way towards 
the meeting house. With one accord they started, expressing more 
wonder than if some strange minister were coming to dust the cushions 
of Mr. Hooper's pulpit. 

"Are you sure it is our parson ?" inquired Goodman Gray of the 
sexton. 

"Of a certainty it is good Mr. Hooper," replied the sexton. 
"He was to have exchanged pulpits with Parson Shute, of Westbury; 
but Parson Shute sent to excuse himself yesterday, being to preach a 
funeral sermon." 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 407 

The cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently slight. 
Mr* Hooper, a gentlemanly person, of about thirty, though still a 
bachelor, was dressed with due clerical neatness, as. if a careful wife 
had starched his band, and brushed the weekly dust from his Sunday's 
garb. There was but one thing remarkable in his appearance. 
Swathed about his forehead, and hanging down over his face, so 
low as to be shaken by his breath, Mr. Hooper had on a black veil. 
On a nearer view, it seemed to consist of two folds of crape, which 
entirely concealed his features, except the mouth and chin, but 
probably did not intercept his sight, further than to give a darkened 
aspect to all living and inanimate things. With this gloomy shade 
before him, good Mr. Hooper walked onward, at a slow and quiet pace, 
stooping somewhat, and looking on the ground, as is customary with 
abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to those of his parishioners who 
still waited on the meeting house steps. But so wonder-struck were 
they, that his greeting hardly met with a return. 

"I can't really feel as if good Mr. Hooper's face was behind that 
piece of crape," said the sexton. 

"I don't like it," muttered an old woman, as she hobbled into the 
meeting house. "He has changed himself into something awful, 
only by hiding his face." 

"Our parson has gone mad!" cried Goodman Gray, following 
him across the threshold. 

A rumor of some unaccountable phenomenon had preceded 
Mr. Hooper into the meeting house, and set all the congregation astir. 
Few could refrain from twisting their heads towards the door; many 
stood upright, and turned directly about; while several little boys 
clambered upon the seats, and came down again with a terrible 
racket. There was a general bustle, a rustling of the women's gowns 
and shuffling of the men's feet, greatly at variance with that hushed 
repose which should attend the entrance of the minister. But Mr. 
Hooper appeared not to notice the perturbation of his people. He 
entered with an almost noiseless step, bent his head mildly to the 
pews on each side, and bowed as he passed his oldest parishioner, a 
white-haired great-grandsire, who occupied an arm chair in the centre 
of the aisle. It was strange to observe, how slowly this venerable 
man became conscious of something singular in the appearance of his 
pastor. He seemed not fully to partake of the prevailing wonder, till 



4 o8 AMERICAN PROSE 



Mr. Hooper had ascended the stairs, and showed himself in the pulpit, 
face to face with his congregation, except for the black veil. That 
mysterious emblem was never once withdrawn. It shook with his 
measured breath as he gave out the psalm; it threw its obscurity 
between him and the holy page, as he read the Scriptures; and 
while he prayed, the veil lay heavily on his uplifted countenance. 
Did he seek to hide it from the dread Being whom he was addressing ? 
Such was the effect of this simple piece of crape, that more than 
one woman of delicate nerves was forced to leave the meeting house. 
Yet perhaps the pale-faced congregation was almost as fearful a sight 
to the minister, as his black veil to them. 

Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good preacher, but not an 
energetic one: he strove to win his people heavenward, by mild, 
persuasive influences, rather than to drive them thither by the 
thunders of the Word. The sermon which he now delivered, was 
marked by the same characteristics of style and manner, as the general 
series of his pulpit oratory. But there was something, either in the 
sentiment of the discourse itself, or in the imagination of the auditors, 
which made it greatly the most powerful effort that they had ever 
heard from their pastor's lips. It was tinged, rather more darkly 
than usual, with the gentle gloom of Mr. Hooper's temperament. 
The subject had reference to secret sin, and those sad mysteries 
which we hide from our nearest and dearest, and would fain conceal 
from our own consciousness, even forgetting that the Omniscient can 
detect them. A subtle power was breathed into his words. Each 
member of the congregation, the most innocent girl, and the man of 
hardened breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon them, behind 
his awful veil, and discovered their hoarded iniquity of deed or 
thought. Many spread their clasped hands on their bosoms. There 
was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper said; at least, no violence; 
and yet, with every tremor of his melancholy voice, the hearers 
quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in hand with awe. So 
sensible were the audience of some unwonted attribute in their minis- 
ter, that they longed for a breath of wind to blow aside the veil, almost 
believing that a stranger's visage would be discovered, though the 
form, gesture, and voice were those of Mr. Hooper. 

At the close of the services, the people hurried out with indeco- 
rous confusion, eager to communicate their pent-up amazement, and 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 409 

conscious of lighter spirits, the moment they lost sight of the black 
veil. Some gathered in little circles, huddled closely together, with 
their mouths all whispering in the centre; some went homeward alone, 
wrapt in silent meditation; some talked loudly, and profaned the 
Sabbath day with ostentatious laughter. A few shook their sagacious 
heads, intimating that they could penetrate the mystery; while 
one or two affirmed that there was no mystery at all, but only that 
Mr. Hooper's eyes were so weakened by the midnight lamp, as to 
require a shade. After a brief interval, forth came good Mr. Hooper 
also, in the rear of his flock. Turning his veiled face from one group 
to another, he paid due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted the 
middle aged with kind dignity, as their friend and spiritual guide, 
greeted the young with mingled authority and love, and laid his 
hands on the little children's heads to bless them. Such was always 
his custom on the Sabbath day. Strange and bewildered looks 
repaid him for his courtesy. None, as on former occasions, aspired 
to the honor of walking by their pastor's side. Old Squire Saunders, 
doubtless by an accidental lapse of memory, neglected to invite Mr. 
Hooper to his table, where the good clergyman had been wont to bless 
the food, almost every Sunday since his settlement. He returned, 
therefore, to the parsonage, and, at the moment of closing the door, 
was observed to look back upon the people, all of whom had their 
eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad smile gleamed faintly from 
beneath the black veil, and flickered about his mouth, glimmering as 
he disappeared. 

"How strange," said a lady, "that a simple black veil, such as 
any woman might wear on her bonnet, should become such a terrible 
thing on Mr. Hooper's face!" 

"Something must surely be amiss with Mr. Hooper's intellects," 
observed her husband, the physician of the village. "But the 
strangest part of the affair is the effect of this vagary, even on a 
sober-minded man like myself. The black veil, though it covers 
only our pastor's face, throws its influence over his whole person, 
and makes him ghostlike from head to foot. Do you not feel it so ? " 

"Truly do I," replied the lady; "and I would not be alone with 
him for the world. I wonder he is not afraid to be alone with him- 
self!" 

"Men sometimes are so," said her husband. 



410 AMERICAN PROSE 



The afternoon service was attended with similar circumstances. 
At its conclusion, the bell tolled for the funeral of a young lady. The 
relatives and friends were assembled in the house, and the more 
distant acquaintances stood about the door, speaking of the good 
qualities of the deceased, when their talk was interrupted by the 
appearance of Mr. Hooper, still covered with his black veil. It 
was now an appropriate emblem. The clergyman stepped into the 
room where the corpse was laid, and bent over the coffin, to take a 
last farewell of his deceased parishioner. As he stooped, the veil 
hung straight down from his forehead, so that, if her eyelids had not 
been closed forever, the dead maiden might have seen his face. 
Could Mr. Hooper be fearful of her glance, that he so hastily caught 
back the black veil ? A person who watched the interview between 
the dead and living, scrupled not to affirm, that, at the instant when 
the clergyman's features were disclosed, the corpse had slightly 
shuddered, rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though the counte- 
nance retained the composure of death. A superstitious old woman 
was the only witness of this prodigy. From the coffin Mr. Hooper 
passed into the chamber of the mourners, and thence to the head of 
the staircase, to make the funeral prayer. It was a tender and heart- 
dissolving prayer, full of sorrow, yet 30 imbued with celestial hopes, 
that the music of a heavenly harp, swept by the fingers of the dead, 
seemed faintly to be heard among the saddest accents of the minister. 
The people trembled, though they but darkly understood him when 
he prayed that they, and himself, and all of mortal race, might be 
ready, as he trusted this young maiden had been, for the dreadful 
hour that should snatch the veil from their faces. The bearers went 
heavily forth, and the mourners followed, saddening all the street, 
with the dead before them, and Mr. Hooper in his black veil behind. 

"Why do you look back?" said one in the procession to his 
partner. 

"I had a fancy," replied she, "that the minister and the maiden's 
spirit were walking hand in hand." 

"And so had I, at the same moment," said the other. 

That night, the handsomest couple in Milford village were to be 
joined in wedlock. Though reckoned a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper 
had a placid cheerfulness for such occasions, which often excited a 
sympathetic smile, where livelier merriment would have been thrown 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 411 

away. There was no quality of his disposition which made him more 
beloved than this. The company at the wedding awaited his arrival 
with impatience, trusting that the strange awe, which had gathered 
over him throughout the day, would now be dispelled. But such 
was not the result. When Mr. Hooper came, the first thing that their 
eyes rested on was the same horrible black veil, which had added 
deeper gloom to the funeral, and could portend nothing but evil to 
the wedding. Such was its immediate effect on the guests, that a 
cloud seemed to have rolled duskily from beneath the black crape, 
and dimmed the light of the candles. The bridal pair stood up before 
the minister. But the bride's cold fingers quivered in the tremulous 
hand of the bridegroom, and her deathlike paleness caused a whisper, 
that the maiden who had been buried a few hours before was come 
from her grave to be married. If ever another wedding were so 
dismal, it was that famous one, where they tolled the wedding knell. 
After performing the ceremony, Mr. Hooper raised a glass of wine 
to his lips, wishing happiness to the new-married couple, in a strain 
of mild pleasantry that ought to have brightened the features of the 
guests, like a cheerful gleam from the hearth. At that instant, 
catching a glimpse of his figure in the looking glass, the black veil 
involved his own spirit in the horror with which it overwhelmed 
all others. His frame shuddered — his lips grew white— he spilt the 
untasted wine upon the carpet — and rushed forth into the darkness. 
For the earth, too, had on her Black Veil. 

The next day, the whole village of Milford talked of little else 
than Parson Hooper's black veil. That, and the mystery concealed 
behind it, supplied a topic for discussion between acquaintances 
meeting in the street, and good women gossiping at their open win- 
dows. It was the first item of news that the tavern keeper told to his 
guests. The children babbled of it on their way to school. One 
imitative little imp covered his face with an old black handkerchief, 
thereby so affrighting his playmates that the panic seized himself, 
and he well nigh lost his wits by his own waggery. 

It was remarkable that of all the busybodies and impertinent 
people in the parish, not one ventured to put the plain question to 
Mr. Hooper, wherefore he did this thing. Hitherto, whenever there 
appeared the slightest call for such interference, he had never lacked 
advisers, nor shown himself averse to be guided by their judgment. 



412 AMERICAN PROSE 



If he erred at all, it was by so painful a degree of self -distrust, that 
even the mildest censure would lead him to consider an indifferent 
action as a crime. Yet, though so well acquainted with this amiable 
weakness, no individual among his parishioners chose to make the 
black veil a subject of friendly remonstrance. There was a feeling 
of dread, neither plainly confessed nor carefully concealed, which 
caused each to shift the responsibility upon another, till at length 
it was found expedient to send a deputation of the church, in order 
to deal with Mr. Hooper about the mystery, before it should grow 
into a scandal. Never did an embassy so ill discharge its duties. 
The minister received them with friendly courtesy, but became 
silent, after they were seated, leaving to his visitors the whole burden 
of introducing their important business. The topic, it might be sup- 
posed, was obvious enough. There was the black veil, swathed 
round Mr. Hooper's forehead, and concealing every feature above his 
placid mouth, on which, at times, they could perceive the glimmering 
of a melancholy smile. But that piece of crape, to their imagination, 
seemed to hang down before his heart, the symbol of a fearful secret 
between him and them. Were the veil but cast aside, they might 
speak freely of it, but not till then. Thus they sat a considerable 
time, speechless, confused, and shrinking uneasily from Mr. Hooper's 
eye, which they felt to be fixed upon them with an invisible glance. 
Finally, the deputies returned abashed to their constituents, pro- 
nouncing the matter too weighty to be handled, except by a council 
of the churches, if, indeed, it might not require a general synod. 

But there was one person in the village unappalled by the awe 
with which the black veil had impressed all beside herself. When the 
deputies returned without an explanation, or even venturing to 
demand one, she, with the calm energy of her character, determined 
to chase away the strange cloud that appeared to be settling round 
Mr. Hooper, every moment more darkly than before. As his plighted 
wife, it should be her privilege to know what the black veil concealed. 
At the minister's first visit, therefore, she entered upon the subject with 
a direct simplicity, which made the task easier both for him and her. 
After he had seated himself, she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the 
veil, but could discern nothing of the dreadful gloom that had so over- 
awed the multitude: it was but a double fold of crape, hanging down 
from his forehead to his mouth, and slightly stirring with his breath. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 413 

"No," said she aloud, and smiling, "there is nothing terrible in 
this piece of crape, except that it hides a face which I am always 
glad to look upon. Come, good sir, let the sun shine from behind the 
cloud. First lay aside your black veil : then tell me why you put it on." 

Mr. Hooper's smile glimmered faintly. 

"There is an hour to come," said he, "when all of us shall cast 
aside our veils. Take it not amiss, beloved friend, if I wear this 
piece of crape till then." 

"Your words are a mystery too," returned the young lady. 
"Take away the veil from them, at least." 

"Elizabeth, I will," said he, "so far as my vow may suffer me. 
Know, then, this veil is a type and a symbol, and I am bound to 
wear it ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude and before the 
gaze of multitudes, and as with strangers, so with my familiar friends. 
No mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal shade must 
separate me from the world: even you, Elizabeth, can never come 
behind it!" 

"What grievous affliction hath befallen you," she earnestly 
inquired, "that you should thus darken your eyes forever?" 

"If it be a sign of mourning," replied Mr. Hooper, "I, perhaps, 
like most other mortals, have sorrows dark enough to be typified 
by a black veil." 

"But what if the world will not believe that it is the type of an 
innocent sorrow?" urged Elizabeth. "Beloved and respected 
as you are, there may be whispers, that you hide your face under 
the consciousness of secret sin. For the sake of your holy office, do 
away this scandal!" 

The color rose into her cheeks as she intimated the nature of the 
rumors that were already abroad in the village. But Mr. Hooper's 
mildness did not forsake him. He even smiled again — that same 
sad smile, which always appeared like a faint glimmering of light, 
proceeding from the obscurity beneath the veil. 

"If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause enough," he merely 
replied; "and if I cover it for secret sin, what mortal might not do the 
same?" 

And with this gentle, but unconquerable obstinacy did he resist 
all her entreaties. At length Elizabeth sat silent. For a few mo- 
ments she appeared lost in thought, considering, probably, what new 



414 AMERICAN PROSE 



methods might be tried, to withdraw her lover from so dark a fantasy, 
which, if it had no other meaning, was perhaps a symptom of mental 
disease. Though of a firmer character than his own, the tears rolled 
down her cheeks. But, in an instant, as it were, a new feeling took 
the place of sorrow: her eyes were fixed insensibly on the black veil, 
when, like a sudden twilight in the air, its terrors fell around her. 
She arose, and stood trembling before him. 

"And do you feel it then at last ?" said he mournfully. 

She made no reply, but covered her eyes with her hand, and 
turned to leave the room. He rushed forward and caught her arm. 

"Have patience with me, Elizabeth!" cried he passionately. 
"Do not desert me, though this veil must be between us here on 
earth. Be mine, and hereafter there shall be no veil over my face, 
no darkness between our souls! It is but a mortal veil — it is not for 
eternity! 0! you know not how lonely I am, and how frightened, 
to be^alone behind my black, veil. Do not leave me in this miserable 
obscurity forever!" 

"Lift the veil but once, and look me in the face," said she. 

"Never! It cannot be!" replied Mr. Hooper. 

"Then, farewell!" said Elizabeth. 

She withdrew her arm from his grasp, and slowly departed, paus- 
ing at the door, to give one long, shuddering gaze, that seemed almost 
to penetrate the mystery of the black veil. But, even amid his 
grief, Mr. Hooper smiled to think that only a material emblem had 
separated him from happiness, though the horrors, which it shadowed 
forth, must be drawn darkly between the fondest of lovers. 

From that time no attempts were made to remove Mr. Hooper's 
black veil, or, by a direct appeal, to discover the secret which it was 
supposed to hide. By persons who claimed a superiority to popular 
prejudice, it was reckoned merely an eccentric whim, such as often 
mingles with the sober actions of men otherwise rational, and tinges 
them all with its own semblance of insanity. But with the multi- 
tude, good Mr. Hooper was irreparably a bugbear. He could not 
walk the street with any peace of mind, so conscious was he that the 
gentle and timid would turn aside to avoid him, and that others 
would make it a point of hardihood to throw themselves in his way. 
The impertinence of the latter class compelled him to give up his 
customary walk, at sunset, to the burial ground; for when he leaned 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 415 

pensively over the gate, there would always be faces behind the 
gravestones, peeping at his black veil. A fable went the rounds, 
that the stare of the dead people drove him thence. It grieved him, 
to the very depth of his kind heart, to observe how the children 
fled from his approach, breaking up their merriest sports, while his 
melancholy figure was yet afar off. Their instinctive dread caused 
him to feel, more strongly than aught else, that a preternatural horror 
was interwoven with the threads of the black crape. In truth, his 
own antipathy to the veil was known to be so great, that he never 
willingly passed before a mirror, nor stooped to drink at a still 
fountain, lest, in its peaceful bosom, he should be affrighted by him- 
self. This was what gave plausibility to the whispers, that Mr. 
Hooper's conscience tortured him for some great crime too horrible 
to be entirely concealed, or otherwise than so obscurely intimated. 
Thus, from beneath the black veil, there rolled a cloud into the 
sunshine, an ambiguity of sin or sorrow, which enveloped the poor 
minister, so that love or sympathy could never reach him. It was 
said, that ghost and fiend consorted with him there. With self- 
shudderings and outward terrors, he walked continually in its 
shadow, groping darkly within his own soul, or gazing through a me- 
dium that saddened the whole world. Even the lawless wind, it was 
believed, respected his dreadful secret, and never blew aside the veil. 
But still good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled at the pale visages of the 
worldly throng as he passed by. 

Among all its bad influences, the black veil had the one desirable 
effect, of making its wearer a very efficient clergyman. By the 
aid of his mysterious emblem — for there was no other apparent 
cause — he became a man of awful power, over souls that were in 
agony for sin. His converts always regarded him with a dread 
peculiar to themselves, affirming, though but figuratively, that, 
before he brought them to celestial light, they had been with him 
behind the black veil. Its gloom, indeed, enabled him to sympa- 
thize with all dark affections. Dying sinners cried aloud for Mr. 
Hooper, and would not yield their breath till he appeared; though 
ever, as he stooped to whisper consolation, they shuddered at the 
veiled face so near their own. Such were the terrors of the black 
veil, even when Death had bared his visage! Strangers came long 
distances to attend service at his church, with the mere idle purpose 



416 AMERICAN PROSE 



of gazing at his figure, because it was forbidden them to behold his 
face. But many were made to quake ere they departed! Once, 
during Governor Belcher's administration, Mr. Hooper was appointed 
to preach the election sermon. Covered with his black veil, he 
stood before the chief magistrate, the council, and the representa- 
tives, and wrought so deep an impression, that the legislative meas- 
ures of that year were characterized by all the gloom and piety of 
our earliest ancestral sway. 

In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, irreproachable in 
outward act, yet shrouded in dismal suspicions; kind and loving, 
though unloved, and dimly feared; a man apart from men, shunned 
in their health and joy, but ever summoned to their aid in mortal 
anguish. As years wore on, shedding their snows above his sable 
veil, he acquired a name throughout the New England churches, and 
they called him Father Hooper. Nearly all his parishioners, who 
were of mature age when he was settled, had been borne away by 
many a funeral: he had one congregation in the church, and a more 
crowded one in the churchyard; and having wrought so late into the 
evening, and done his work so well, it was now good Father Hooper's 
turn to rest. 

Several persons were visible by the shaded candle-light, in the 
death chamber of the old clergyman. Natural connections he had 
none. But there was the decorously grave, though unmoved physi- 
cian, seeking only to mitigate the last pangs of the patient whom 
he could not save. There were the deacons, and other eminently 
pious members of his church. There, also, was the Reverend Mr. 
Clark, of Westbury, a young and zealous divine, who had ridden in 
haste to pray by the bedside of the expiring minister. There was the 
nurse, no hired handmaiden of death, but one whose calm affection had 
endured thus long in secrecy, in solitude, amid the chill of age, and 
would not perish, even at the dying hour. Who, but Elizabeth! 
And there lay the hoary head of good Father Hooper upon the death 
pillow, with the black veil still swathed about his brow, and reaching 
down over his face, so that each more difficult gasp of his faint 
breath caused it to stir. All through life that piece of crape had 
hung between him and the world: it had separated him from cheer- 
ful brotherhood and woman's love, and kept him in that saddest of all 
prisons, his own heart; and still it lay upon his face, as if to deepen 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 417 

the gloom of his darksome chamber, and shade him from the sunshine 
of eternity. 

For some time previous,. his mind had been confused, wavering 
doubtfully between the past and the present, and hovering forward, 
as it were, at intervals, into the indistinctness of the world to come. 
There had been feverish turns, which tossed him from side to side, 
and wore away what little strength he had. But in his most convul- 
sive struggles, and in the wildest vagaries of his intellect, when no 
other thought retained its sober influence, he still showed an awful 
solicitude lest the black veil should slip aside. Even if his bewildered 
soul could have forgotten, there was a faithful woman at his pillow, 
who, with averted eyes, would have covered that aged face, which 
she had last beheld in the comeliness of manhood. At length the 
death-stricken old man lay quietly in the torpor of mental and bodily 
exhaustion, with an imperceptible pulse, and breath that grew 
fainter and fainter, except when a long, deep, and irregular inspiration 
seemed to prelude the flight of his spirit. 

The minister of Westbury approached the bedside. 

"Venerable Father Hooper," said he, "the moment of your 
release is at hand. Are you ready for the lifting of the veil, that shuts 
in time from eternity?" 

Father Hooper at first replied merely by a feeble motion of his 
head; then, apprehensive, perhaps, that his meaning might be 
doubtful, he exerted himself to speak. 

"Yea," said he, in faint accents, "my soul hath a patient weari- 
ness until that veil be lifted." 

"And is it fitting," resumed the Reverend Mr. Clark, "that a 
man so given to prayer, of such a blameless example, holy in deed 
and thought, so far as mortal judgment may pronounce; is it fitting 
that a father in the church should leave a shadow on his memory, that 
may seem to blacken a life so pure ? I pray you, my venerable 
brother, let not this thing be! Suffer us to be gladdened by your 
triumphant aspect, as you go to your reward. Before the veil of 
eternity be lifted, let me cast aside this black veil from your face!" 

And thus speaking, the Reverend Mr. Clark bent forward to 
reveal the mystery of so many years. But, exerting a sudden energy, 
that made all the beholders stand aghast, Father Hooper snatched 
both his hands from beneath the bed clothes, and pressed them 



418 AMERICAN PROSE 



strongly on the black veil, resolute to struggle, if the minister of 
Westbury would contend with a dying man. 

"Never!" cried the veiled clergyman. "On earth, never!" 

"Dark old man!" exclaimed the affrighted minister, "with what 
horrible crime upon your soul are you now passing to the judgment ?" 

Father Hooper's breath heaved; it rattled in his throat; but, 
with a mighty effort, grasping forward with his hands, he caught hold 
of life, and held it back till he should speak. He even raised himself in 
bed; and there he sat, shivering with the arms of death around him, 
while the black veil hung down, awful, at that last moment, in the 
gathered terrors of a lifetime. And yet the faint, sad smile, so often 
there, now seemed to glimmer from its obscurity, and linger on 
Father Hooper's lips. 

"Why do you tremble at me alone?" cried he, turning his veiled 
face round the circle of pale spectators. "Tremble also at each 
other! Have men avoided me, and women shown no pity, and 
children screamed and fled, only for my black veil ? What, but the 
mystery which it obscurely typifies, has made this piece of crape so 
awful ? When the friend shows his inmost heart to his friend; the 
lover to his best beloved; when man does not vainly shrink from the 
eye of his Creator, loathsomely treasuring up the secret of his sin; 
then deem me a monster, for the symbol beneath which I have lived, 
and die! I look around me, and, lo! on every visage a Black Veil! " 

While his auditors shrank from one another, in mutual affright, 
Father Hooper fell back upon his pillow, a veiled corpse, with a faint 
smile lingering on the lips. Still veiled, they laid him in his coffin, 
and a veiled corpse they bore him to the grave. The grass of many 
years has sprung up and withered on that grave, the burial stone 
is moss-grown, and good Mr. Hooper's face is dust; but awful is 
still the thought that it mouldered beneath the Black Veil! 

DR. HEIDEGGER'S EXPERIMENT 

That very singular man, old Dr. Heidegger, once invited four 
venerable friends to meet him in his study. There were three white- 
bearded gentlemen, Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. 
Gascoigne, and a withered gentlewoman, whose name was the Widow 
Wycherly. They were all melancholy old creatures, who had been 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 4*9 

unfortunate in life, and whose greatest misfortune it was, that they 
v/ere not long ago in their graves. Mr. Medbourne, in the vigor of 
his age, had been a prosperous merchant, but had lost his all by a 
frantic speculation, and was now little better than a mendicant. 
Colonel Killigrew had wasted his best years, and his . health and 
substance, in the pursuit of sinful pleasures, which had given birth to 
a brood of pains, such as the gout, and divers other torments of soul 
and body. Mr. Gascoigne was a ruined politician, a man of evil 
fame, or at least had been so, till time had buried him from the knowl- 
edge of the present generation, and made him obscure instead of 
infamous. As for the Widow Wycherly, tradition tells us that she 
was a great beauty in her day; but, for a long while past, she had 
lived in deep seclusion, on account of certain scandalous stories, which 
had prejudiced the gentry of the town against her. It is a circum- 
stance worth mentioning, that each of these three old gentlemen, 
Mr. Medbourne, Colonel Killigrew, and Mr. Gascoigne, were early 
lovers of the Widow Wycherly, and had once been on the point of 
cutting each other's throats for her sake. And, before proceeding 
further, I will merely hint, that Dr. Heidegger and all his four guests 
were sometimes thought to be a little beside themselves; as is not 
unfrequently the case with old people, when worried either by present 
troubles or woful recollections. 

"My dear old friends," said Dr. Heidegger, motioning them to 
be seated, "I am desirous of your assistance in one of those little 
experiments with which I amuse myself here in my study." 

If all stories were true, Dr. Heidegger's study must have been a very 
curious place. It was a dim, old-fashioned chamber, festooned with 
cobwebs, and besprinkled with antique dust. Around the walls stood 
several oaken bookcases, the lower shelves of which were filled with 
rows of gigantic folios, and black-letter quartoes, and the upper with 
little parchment-covered duodecimoes. Over the central bookcase 
was a bronze bust of Hippocrates, with which, according to some 
authorities, Dr. Heidegger was accustomed to hold consultations, in 
all difficult cases of his practice. In the obscurest corner of the room 
stood a tall and narrow oaken closet, with its door ajar, within which 
doubtfully appeared a skeleton. Between two of the bookcases 
hung a looking glass, presenting its high and dusty plate within a 
tarnished gilt frame. Among many wonderful stories related of this 



420 AMERICAN PROSE 



mirror, it was fabled that the spirits of all the doctor's deceased 
patients dwelt within its verge, and would stare him in the face 
whenever he looked thitherward. The opposite side of the chamber 
was ornamented with the full-length portrait of a young lady, arrayed 
in the faded magnificence of silk, satin, and brocade, and with a 
visage as faded as her dress. Above half a century ago, Dr. Heidegger 
had been on the point of marriage with this young lady; but, being 
affected with some slight disorder, she had swallowed one of her 
lover's prescriptions, and died on the bridal evening. The greatest 
curiosity of the study remains to be mentioned; it was a ponderous 
folio volume, bound in black leather, with massive silver clasps. 
There were no letters on the back, and nobody could tell the title of 
the book. But it was well known to be a book of magic; and once, 
when a chambermaid had lifted it, merely to brush away the dust, 
the skeleton had rattled in its closet, the picture of the young lady had 
stepped one foot upon the floor, and several ghastly faces had peeped 
forth from the mirror; while the brazen head of Hippocrates frowned, 
and said — "Forbear!" 

Such was Dr. Heidegger's study. On the summer afternoon of 
our tale, a small round table, as black as ebony, stood in the centre 
of the room, sustaining a cut-glass vase, of beautiful form and elabo- 
rate workmanship. The sunshine came through the window, between 
the heavy festoons of two faded damask curtains, and fell directly 
across this vase; so that a mild splendor was reflected from it on the 
ashen visages of the five old people who sat around. Four champagne 
glasses were also on the table. 

"My dear old friends," repeated Dr. Heidegger, "may I reckon 
on your aid in performing an exceedingly curious experiment ?" 

Now Dr. Heidegger was a very strange old gentleman, whose 
eccentricity had become the nucleus for a thousand fantastic stories. 
Some of these fables, to my shame be it spoken, might possibly be 
traced back to mine own veracious self; and if any passages of the 
present tale should startle the reader's faith, I must be content to bear 
the stigma of a fiction monger. 

When the doctor's four guests heard him talk of his proposed 
experiment, they anticipated nothing more wonderful than the 
murder of a mouse in an air pump, or the examination of a cobweb by 
the microscope, or some similar nonsense, with which he was con- 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 421 

stantly in the habit of pestering his intimates. But without waiting 
for a reply, Dr. Heidegger hobbled across the chamber, and returned 
with the same ponderous folio, bound in black leather, which common 
report affirmed to be a book of magic. Undoing the silver clasps, he 
opened the volume, and took from among its black-letter pages a rose, 
or what was once a rose, though now the green leaves and crimson 
petals had assumed one brownish hue, and the ancient flower seemed 
ready to crumble to dust in the doctor's hands. 

"This rose," said Dr. Heidegger, with a sigh, " this same withered 
and crumbling flower, blossomed five and fifty years ago. It was 
given me by Sylvia Ward, whose portrait hangs yonder; and I meant 
to wear it in my bosom at our wedding. Five and fifty years it has 
been treasured between the leaves of this old volume. Now, would 
you deem it possible that this rose of half a century could ever bloom 
again?" 

"Nonsense!" said the Widow Wycherly, with a peevish toss of 
her head. "You might as well ask whether an old woman's wrinkled 
face could ever bloom again." 

"See!" answered Dr. Heidegger. 

He uncovered the vase, and threw the faded rose into the water 
which it contained. At first, it lay lightly on the surface of the fluid, 
appearing to imbibe none of its moisture. Soon, however, a singular 
change began to be visible. The crushed and dried petals stirred, and 
assumed a deepening tinge of crimson, as if the flower were reviving 
from a deathlike slumber; the slender stalk and twigs of foliage 
became green; and there was the rose of half a century, looking as 
fresh as when Sylvia Ward had first given it to her lover. It was 
scarcely full blown ; for some of its delicate red leaves curled modestly 
around its moist bosom, within which two or three dewdrops were 
sparkling. 

"That is certainly a very pretty deception," said the doctor's 
friends; carelessly, however, for they had witnessed greater miracles 
at a conjurer's show; "pray how was it effected ?" 

"Did you never hear of the 'Fountain of Youth?'" asked Dr. 
Heidegger, "which Ponce De Leon, the Spanish adventurer, went 
in search of, two or three centuries ago ? " 

"But did Ponce De Leon ever find it?" said the Widow 
Wycherly. 



422 AMERICAN PROSE 



"No," answered Dr. Heidegger, "for he never sought it in the 
right place. The famous Fountain of Youth, if I am rightly informed, 
is situated in the southern part of the Floridian peninsula, not far 
from Lake Macaco. Its source is overshadowed by several gigantic 
magnolias, which, though numberless centuries old, have been kept 
as fresh as violets, by the virtues of this wonderful water. An 
acquaintance of mine, knowing my curiosity in such matters, has sent 
me what you see in the vase." 

"Ahem!" said Colonel Killigrew, who believed not a word of the 
doctor's story; "and what may be the effect of this fluid on the 
human frame ? " 

"You shall judge for yourself, my dear colonel," replied 
Dr. Heidegger; "and all of you, my respected friends, are welcome 
to so much of this admirable fluid as may restore to you the 
bloom of youth. For my own part, having had much trouble 
in growing old, I am in no hurry to grow young again. With your 
permission, therefore, I will merely watch the progress of the 
experiment." 

While he spoke, Dr. Heidegger had been filling the four cham- 
pagne glasses with the water of the Fountain of Youth. It was 
apparently impregnated with an effervescent gas, for little bubbles 
were continuaUy ascending from the depths of the glasses, and bursting 
in silvery spray at the surface. As the liquor diffused a pleasant 
perfume, the old people doubted not that it possessed cordial and 
comfortable properties; and, though utter sceptics as to its rejuvenes- 
cent power, they were inclined to swallow it at once. But Dr. 
Heidegger besought them to stay a moment. 

"Before you drink, my respectable old friends," said he, "it 
would be well that, with the experience of a lifetime to direct you, 
you should draw up a few general rules for your guidance, in passing 
a second time through the perils of youth. Think what a sin and 
shame it would be, if, with your peculiar advantages, you should not 
become patterns of virtue and wisdom to all the young people of the 
age!" 

The doctor's four venerable friends made him no answer, except 
by a feeble and tremulous laugh; so very ridiculous was the idea, 
that, knowing how closely repentance treads behind the steps of error, 
they should ever go astray again. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 423 

"Drink, then," said the doctor, bowing: "I rejoice that I have 
so well selected the subjects of my experiment." 

With palsied hands, they raised the glasses to their lips. The 
liquor, if it really possessed such virtues as Dr. Heidegger imputed 
to it, could not have been bestowed on four human beings who needed 
it more wofully. They looked as if they had never known what 
youth or pleasure was, but had been the offspring of Nature's dotage, 
and always the gray, decrepit, sapless, miserable creatures, who now 
sat stooping round the doctor's table, without life enough in their 
souls or bodies to be animated even by the prospect of growing 
young again. They drank off the water, and replaced their glasses 
on the table. 

Assuredly there was an almost immediate improvement in the 
aspect of the party, not unlike what might have been produced by a 
glass of generous wine, together with a sudden glow of cheerful sun- 
shine, brightening over all their visages at once. There was a health- 
ful suffusion on their cheeks, instead of the ashen hue that had made 
them look so corpse-like. They gazed at one another, and fancied 
that some magic power had really begun to smooth away the deep 
and sad inscriptions which Father Time had been so long engraving 
on their brows. The Widow Wycherly adjusted her cap, for she felt 
almost like a woman again. 

"Give us more of this wondrous water!" cried they, eagerly. 
"We are younger — but we are still too old! Quick — give us more!" 

"Patience, patience!" quoth Dr. Heidegger, who sat watching 
the experiment, with philosophic coolness. "You have been a 
long time growing old. Surely, you might be content to grow 
young in half an hour! But the water is at your service." 

Again he filled their glasses with the liquor of youth, enough 
of which still remained in the vase to turn half the old people in the 
city to the age of their own grandchildren. While the bubbles were 
yet sparkling on the brim, the doctor's four guests snatched their 
glasses from the table, and swallowed the contents at a single gulp. 
Was it delusion? even while the draught was passing down their 
throats, it seemed to have wrought a change on their whole systems. 
Their eyes grew clear and bright; a dark shade deepened among their 
silvery locks; they sat around the table, three gentlemen, of middle 
age, and a woman, hardly beyond her buxom prime. 



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"My dear widow, you are charming!" cried Colonel Killigrew, 
whose eyes had been fixed upon her face, while the shadows of age 
were flitting from it like darkness from the crimson daybreak. 

The fair widow knew, of old, that Colonel Killigrew 's compliments 
were not always measured by sober truth ; so she started up and ran to 
the mirror, still dreading that the ugly visage of an old woman would 
meet her gaze. Meanwhile, the three gentlemen behaved in such a 
manner, as proved that the water of the Fountain of Youth possessed 
some intoxicating qualities; unless, indeed, their exhilaration of 
spirits were merely a lightsome dizziness, caused by the sudden 
removal of the weight of years. Mr. Gascoigne's mind seemed to 
run on political topics, but whether relating to the past, present, or 
future, could not easily be determined, since the same ideas and 
phrases have been in vogue these fifty years. Now he rattled forth 
full-throated sentences about patriotism, national glory, and the 
people's right; now he muttered some perilous stuff or other, in a 
sly and doubtful whisper, so cautiously that even his own conscience 
could scarcely catch the secret; and now, again, he spoke in measured 
accents, and a deeply deferential tone, as if a royal ear were listening 
to his well-turned periods. Colonel Killigrew all this time had been 
trolling forth a jolly bottle song, and ringing his glass in symphony 
with the chorus, while his eyes wandered toward the buxom figure 
of the Widow Wycherly. On the other side of the table, Mr. Med- 
bourne was involved in a calculation of dollars and cents, with 
which was strangely intermingled a project for supplying the East 
Indies with ice, by harnessing a team of whales to the polar icebergs. 

As for the Widow Wycherly, she stood before the mirror courtesy- 
ing and simpering to her own image, and greeting it as the friend 
whom she loved better than all the world beside. She thrust her 
face close to the glass, to see whether some long-remembered wrinkle 
or crow's foot had indeed vanished. She examined whether the 
snow had so entirely melted from her hair, that the venerable cap 
could be safely thrown aside. At last, turning briskly away, she 
came with a sort of dancing step to the table. 

"My dear old doctor," cried she, "pray favor me with another 
glass!" 

"Certainly, my dear madam, certainly!" replied the complaisant 
doctor; "see! I have already filled the glasses." 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 425 

There, in fact, stood the four glasses, brimful of this wonderful 
water, the delicate spray of which, as it effervesced from the surface, 
resembled the tremulous glitter of diamonds. It was now so nearly 
sunset, that the chamber had grown duskier than ever; but a mild 
and moonlike splendor gleamed from within the vase, and rested alike 
on the four guests, and on the doctor's venerable figure. He sat in a 
high-backed, elaborately-carved, oaken arm chair, with a gray 
dignity of aspect that might have well befitted that very Father Time, 
whose power had never been disputed, save by this fortunate com- 
pany. Even while quaffing the third draught of the Fountain of 
Youth, they were almost awed by the expression of his mysterious 
visage. 

But, the next moment, the exhilarating gush of young life shot 
through their veins. They were now in the happy prime of youth. 
Age, with its miserable train of cares, and sorrows, and diseases, 
was remembered only as the trouble of a dream, from which they 
had joyously awoke. The fresh gloss of the soul, so early lost, 
and without which the world's successive scenes had been but a 
gallery of faded pictures, again threw its enchantment over all their 
prospects. They felt like new-created beings, in a new-created 
universe. 

"We are young! We are young!" they cried exultingly, 

Youth, like the extremity of age, had effaced the strongly-marked 
characteristics of middle life, and mutually assimilated them all. 
They were a group of merry youngsters, almost maddened with the 
exuberant frolicsomeness of their years. The most singular effect of 
their gayety was an impulse to mock the infirmity and decrepitude 
of which they had so lately been the victims. They laughed loudly 
at their old-fashioned attire, the wide-skirted coats and flapped 
waistcoats of the young men, and the ancient cap and gown of the 
blooming girl. One h'mped across the floor, like a gouty grandfather; 
one set a pair of spectacles astride of his nose, and pretended to pore 
over the black-letter pages of the book of magic; a third seated him- 
self in an arm chair, and strove to imitate the venerable dignity of 
Dr. Heidegger. Then all shouted mirthfully, and leaped about the 
room. The Widow Wycherly — if so fresh a damsel could be called 
a widow — tripped up to the doctor's chair, with a mischievous merri- 
ment in her rosy face. 



426 AMERICAN PROSE 



"Doctor, you dear old soul," cried she, "get up and dance with 
me!" And then the four young people laughed louder than ever, to 
think what a queer figure the poor old doctor would cut. 

"Pray excuse me," answered the doctor quietly. "I am old 
and rheumatic, and my dancing days were over long ago. But either 
of these gay young gentlemen will be glad of so pretty a partner." 

"Dance with me, Clara!" cried Colonel Killigrew. 

"No, no, I will be her partner!" shouted Mr. Gascoigne. 

"She promised me her hand, fifty years ago!" exclaimed Mr. 
Medbourne. 

They all gathered round her. One caught both her hands in his 
passionate grasp — another threw his arm about her waist — the third 
buried his hand among the glossy curls that clustered beneath the 
widow's cap. Blushing, panting, struggling, chiding, laughing, her 
warm breath fanning each of their faces by turns, she strove to dis- 
engage herself, yet still remained in their triple embrace. Never was 
there a livelier picture of youthful rivalship, with bewitching beauty 
for the prize. Yet, by a strange deception, owing to the duskiness of 
the chamber, and the antique dresses which they still wore, the 
tall mirror is said to have reflected the figures of the three old, gray, 
withered grandsires, ridiculously contending for the skinny ugliness 
of a shrivelled grandam. 

But they were young: their burning passions proved them so. 
Inflamed to madness by the coquetry of the girl-widow, who neither 
granted nor quite withheld her favors, the three rivals began to inter- 
change threatening glances. Still keeping hold of the fair prize, they 
grappled fiercely at one another's throats. As they struggled to and 
fro, the table was overturned, and the vase dashed into a thousand 
fragments. The precious Water of Youth flowed in a bright stream 
across the floor, moistening the wings of a butterfly, which, grown old 
in the decline of summer, had alighted there to die. The insect 
fluttered lightly through the chamber, and settled on the snowy 
head of Dr. Heidegger. 

"Come, come, gentlemen ! — come, Madame Wycherly," exclaimed 
the doctor, "I really must protest against this riot." 

They stood still, and shivered; for it seemed as if gray Time were 
calling them back from their sunny youth, far down into the chill 
and darksome vale of years. They looked at old Dr. Heidegger, 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 427 

who sat in his carved arm chair, holding the rose of half a century, 
which he had rescued from among the fragments of the shattered 
vase. At the motion of his hand, the four rioters resumed their 
seats; the more readily, because their violent exertions had wearied 
them, youthful though they were. 

"My poor Sylvia's rose!" ejaculated Dr. Heidegger, holding it in 
the light of the sunset clouds; "it appears to be fading again." 

And so it was. Even while the party were looking at it, the 
flower continued to shrivel up, till it became as dry and fragile as 
when the doctor had first thrown it into the vase. He shook off 
the few drops of moisture which clung to its petals. 

"I love it as well thus, as in its dewy freshness," observed he, 
pressing the withered rose to his withered lips. While he spoke, 
the butterfly fluttered down from the doctor's snowy head, and fell 
upon the floor. 

His guests shivered again. A strange dullness, whether of the 
body or spirit they could not tell, was creeping gradually over them 
all. They gazed at one another, and fancied that each fleeting 
moment snatched away a charm, and left a deepening furrow where 
none had been before. Was it an illusion? Had the changes of a 
lifetime been crowded into so brief a space, and were they now four 
aged people, sitting with their old friend, Dr. Heidegger ? 

"Are we grown old again, so soon?" cried they, dolefully. 

In truth, they had. The Water of Youth possessed merely a 
virtue more transient than that of wine. The delirium which it 
created had effervesced away. Yes! they were old again. With a 
shuddering impulse, that showed her a woman still, the widow clasped 
her skinny hands before her face, and wished that the coffin lid were 
over it, since it could be no longer beautiful. 

"Yes, friends, ye are old again," said Dr. Heidegger; "and lo! 
the Water of Youth is all lavished on the ground. Well — I bemoan 
it not; for if the fountain gushed at my very doorstep, I would not 
stoop to bathe my lips' in it — no, though its delirium were for years 
instead of moments. Such is the lesson ye have taught me!" 

But the doctor's four friends had taught no such lesson to them- 
selves. They resolved forthwith to make a pilgrimage to Florida, 
and quaff at morning, noon, and night, from the fountain of 
Youth. 



428 AMERICAN PROSE 



RAPPACCINI'S DAUGHTER 

A young man, named Giovanni Guasconti, came, very long ago, 
from the more southern region of Italy, to pursue his studies at the 
University of Padua. Giovanni, who had but a scanty supply of 
gold ducats in his pocket, took lodgings in a high and gloomy cham- 
ber of an old edifice which looked not unworthy to have been the 
palace of a Paduan noble, and which, in fact, exhibited over its 
entrance the armorial bearings of a family long since extinct. The 
young stranger, who was not unstudied in the great poem of his 
country, recollected that one of the ancestors of this family, and 
perhaps an occupant of this very mansion, had been pictured by 
Dante as a partaker of the immortal agonies of his Inferno. These 
reminiscences and associations, together with the tendency to heart- 
break natural to a young man for the first time out of his native sphere, 
caused Giovanni to sigh heavily as he looked around the desolate 
and ill-furnished apartment. 

"Holy Virgin, signor," cried old Dame Lisabetta, who, won by 
the youth's remarkable beauty of person, was kindly endeavoring 
to give the chamber a habitable air, "what a sigh was that to come 
out of a young man's heart! Do you find this old mansion gloomy ? 
For the love of Heaven, then, put your head out of the window, and 
you will see as bright sunshine as you have left in Naples." 

Guasconti mechanically did as the old woman advised, but could 
not quite agree with her that the Paduan sunshine was as cheerful 
as that of southern Italy. Such as it was, however, it fell upon a 
garden beneath the window and expended its fostering influences on 
a variety of plants, which seemed to have been cultivated with 
exceeding care. 

"Does this garden belong to the house?" asked Giovanni. 

"Heaven forbid, signor, unless it were fruitful of better pot herbs 
than any that grow there now," answered old Lisabetta. "No; 
that garden is cultivated by the own hands of Signor Giacomo Rap- 
paccini, the famous doctor, who, I warrant him, has been heard of as 
far as Naples. It is said that he distils these plants into medicines 
that are as potent as a charm. Oftentimes you may see the signor 
doctor at work, and perchance the signora, his daughter, too, gather- 
ing the strange flowers that grow in the garden." 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 429 

The old woman had now done what she could for the aspect of the 
chamber; and, commending the young man to the protection of the 
saints, took her departure. 

Giovanni still found no better occupation than to look down 
into the garden beneath his window. From its appearance, he 
judged it to be one of those botanic gardens which were of earlier 
date in Padua than elsewhere in Italy or in the world. Or, not 
improbably, it might once have been the pleasure-place of an opulent 
family; for there was the ruin of a marble fountain in the centre, 
sculptured with rare art, but so wofully shattered that it was impos- 
sible to trace the original design from the chaos of remaining frag- 
ments. The water, however, continued to gush and sparkle into 
the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever. A little gurgling sound ascended 
to the young man's window, and made him feel as if the fountain 
were an immortal spirit, that sung its song unceasingly and without 
heeding the vicissitudes around it, while one century imbodied it in 
marble and another scattered the perishable garniture on the soil. 
All about the pool into which the water subsided grew various plants, 
that seemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for the nourish- 
ment of gigantic leaves, and, in some instances, flowers gorgeously 
magnificent. There was one shrub in particular, set in a marble 
vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a profusion of purple blossoms, 
each of which had the lustre and richness of a gem; and the whole 
together made a show so resplendent that it seemed enough to 
illuminate the garden, even had there been no sunshine. Every 
portion of the soil was peopled with plants and herbs, which, if less 
beautiful, still bore tokens of assiduous care; as if all had their 
individual virtues, known to the scientific mind that fostered them. 
Some were placed in urns, rich with old carving, and others in com- 
mon garden pots; some crept serpent-like along the ground or climbed 
on high, using whatever means of ascent was offered them. One plant 
had wreathed itself round a statue of Vertumnus, which was thus 
quite veiled and shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage, so happily 
arranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study. 

While Giovanni stood at the window he heard a rustling behind a 
screen of leaves, and became aware that a person was at work in the 
garden. His figure soon emerged into view, and showed itself to be 
that of no common laborer, but a tall, emaciated, sallow, and sickly- 



430 AMERICAN PROSE 



looking man, dressed in a scholar's garb of black. He was beyond 
the middle term of life, with gray hair, a thin, gray beard, and a face 
singularly marked with intellect and cultivation, but which could 
never, even in his more youthful days, have expressed much warmth 
of heart. 

Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scientific 
gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path ; it seemed as 
if he was looking into their inmost nature, making observations in 
regard to their creative essence, and discovering why one leaf grew 
in this shape and another in that, and wherefore such and such flowers 
differed among themselves in hue and perfume. Nevertheless, in 
spite of this deep intelligence on his part, there was no approach to 
intimacy between himself and these vegetable existences. On the 
contrary, he avoided their actual touch or the direct inhaling of their 
odors with a caution that impressed Giovanni most disagreeably; 
for the man's demeanor was that of one walking among malignant 
influences, such as savage beasts, or deadly snakes, or evil spirits, 
which, should he allow them one moment of license, would wreak upon 
him some terrible fatality. It was strangely frightful to the young- 
man's imagination to see this air of insecurity in a person cultivating 
a garden, that most simple and innocent of human toils, and which had 
been alike the joy and labor of the unfallen parents of the race. Was 
this garden, then, the Eden of the present world ? And this man, 
with such a perception of harm in what his own hands caused to 
grow, — was he the Adam ? 

The distrustful gardener, while plucking away the dead leaves 
or pruning the too luxuriant growth of the shrubs, defended his hands 
with a pair of thick gloves. Nor were these his only armor. When, 
in his walk through the garden, he came to the magnificent plant 
that hung its purple gems beside the marble fountain, he placed a 
kind of mask over his mouth and nostrils, as if all this beauty did but 
conceal a deadlier malice; but, finding his task still too dangerous, he 
drew back, removed the mask, and called loudly, but in the infirm 
voice of a person affected with inward disease, — 

"Beatrice! Beatrice!" 

"Here am I, my father. What would you?" cried a rich and 
youthful voice from the window of the opposite house — a voice as 
rich as a tropical sunset, and which made Giovanni, though he knew 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 431 

not why, think of deep hues of purple or crimson and of perfumes 
heavily delectable. "Are you in the garden ? " 

"Yes, Beatrice," answered the gardener; "and I need your help." 

Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a 
young girl, arrayed with as much richness of taste as the most splendid 
of the flowers, beautiful as the day, and with a bloom so deep and 
vivid that one shade more would have been too much. She looked 
redundant with life, health, and energy; all of which attributes were 
bound down and compressed, as it were, and girdled tensely, in their 
luxuriance, by her virgin zone. Yet Giovanni's fancy must have 
grown morbid while he looked down into the garden; for the impres- 
sion which the fair stranger made upon him was as if here were 
another flower, the human sister of those vegetable ones, as beautiful 
as they, more beautiful than the richest of them, but still to be 
touched only with a glove, nor to be approached without a mask. As 
Beatrice came down the garden path, it was observable that she 
handled and inhaled the odor of several of the plants which her father 
had most sedulously avoided. 

"Here, Beatrice," said the latter, "see how many needful offices 
require to be done to our chief treasure. Yet, shattered as I am, my 
life might pay the penalty of approaching it so closely as circumstances 
demand. Henceforth, I fear, this plant must be consigned to your 
sole charge." 

"And gladly will I undertake it," cried again the rich tones of the 
young lady, as she bent towards the magnificent plant and opened 
her arms as if to embrace it. "Yes, my sister, my splendor, it shall 
be Beatrice's task to nurse and serve thee; and thou shalt reward 
her with thy kisses and perfumed breath, which to her is as the 
breath of life!" 

Then, with all the tenderness in her manner that was so strikingly 
expressed in her words, she busied herself with such attentions as the 
plant seemed to require; and Giovanni, at his lofty window, rubbed 
his eyes, and almost doubted whether it were a girl tending her favor- 
ite flower, or one sister performing the duties of affection to another. 
The scene soon terminated. Whether Dr. Rappaccini had finished 
his labors in the garden, or that his watchful eye had caught the 
stranger's face, he now took his daughter's arm and retired. Night 
was already closing in; oppressive exhalations seemed to proceed from 



432 AMERICAN PROSE 



the plants and steal upward past the open window; and Giovanni, 
closing the lattice, went to his couch and dreamed of a rich flower 
and beautiful girl. Flower and maiden were different, and yet the 
same, and fraught with some strange peril in either shape. 

But there is an influence in the light of morning that tends to 
rectify whatever errors of fancy, or even of judgment, we may have 
incurred during the sun's decline, or among the shadows of the night, 
or in the less wholesome glow of moonshine. Giovanni's first move- 
ment, on starting from sleep, was to throw open the window and gaze 
down into the garden which his dreams had made so fertile of mys- 
teries. He was surprised, and a little ashamed, to find how real and 
matter-of-fact an affair it proved to be, in the first rays of the sun 
which gilded the dewdrops that hung upon leaf and blossom, and, 
while giving a brighter beauty to each rare flower, brought every- 
thing within the limits of ordinary experience. The young man 
rejoiced that, in the heart of the barren city, he had the privilege 
of overlooking this spot of lovely and luxuriant vegetation. It would 
serve, he said to himself, as a symbolic language to keep him in com- 
munion with Nature. Neither the sickly and thoughtworn Dr. 
Giacomo Rappaccini, it is true, nor his brilliant daughter, were now 
visible; so that Giovanni could not determine how much of the singu- 
larity which he attributed to both was due to their own qualities 
and how much to his wonder-working fancy; but he was inclined to 
take a most rational view of the whole matter. 

In the course of the day he paid his respects to Signor Pietro 
Baglioni, professor of medicine in the university, a physician of emi- 
nent repute, to whom Giovanni had brought a letter of introduction. 
The professor was an elderly personage, apparently of genial nature 
and habits that might almost be called jovial. He kept the young 
man to dinner, and made himself very agreeable by the freedom and 
liveliness of his conversation, especially when warmed by a flask or two 
of Tuscan wine. Giovanni, conceiving that men of science, inhabit- 
ants of the same city, must needs be on familiar terms with one 
another, took an opportunity to mention the name of Dr. Rappaccini. 
But the professor did not respond with so much cordiality as he had 
anticipated. 

"Ill would it become a teacher of the divine art of medicine," 
said Professor Pietro Baglioni, in answer to a question of Giovanni, 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 433 

"to withhold due and well-considered praise of a physician so emi- 
nently skilled as Rappaccini; but, on the other hand, I should answer 
it but scantily to my conscience were I to permit a worthy youth like 
yourself, Signor Giovanni, the son of an ancient friend, to imbibe 
erroneous ideas respecting a man who might hereafter chance to hold 
your life and death in his hands. The truth is, our worshipful Dr. 
Rappaccini has as much science as any member of the faculty — 
with perhaps one single exception — in Padua, or all Italy; but 
there are certain grave objections to his professional character." 

"And what are they?" asked the young man. 

"Has my friend Giovanni any disease of body or heart, that he is 
so inquisitive about physicians?" said the professor, with a smile. 
"But as for Rappaccini, it is said of him — and I, who know the man 
well, can answer for its truth — that he cares infinitely more for science 
than for mankind. His patients are interesting to him only as 
subjects for some new experiment. He would sacrifice human life, 
his own among the rest, or whatever else was dearest to him, for the 
sake of adding so much as a grain of mustard seed to the great heap of 
his accumulated knowledge." 

"Methinks he is an awful man indeed," remarked Guasconti, 
mentally recalling the cold and purely intellectual aspect of Rappac- 
cini. "And yet, worshipful professor, is it not a noble spirit? Are 
there many men capable of so spiritual a love of science ? " 

"God forbid," answered the professor, somewhat testily; "at 
least, unless they take sounder views of the healing art than those 
adopted by Rappaccini. It is his theory that all medicinal virtues are 
comprised within those substances which we term vegetable poisons. 
These he cultivates with his own hands, and is said even to have pro- 
duced new varieties of poison, more horribly deleterious than Nature, 
without the assistance of this learned person, would ever have plagued 
the world withal. That the signor doctor does less mischief than 
might be expected with such dangerous substances, is undeniable. 
Now and then, it must be owned, he has effected, or seemed to effect, 
a marvellous cure; but, to tell you my private mind, Signor Giovanni, 
he should receive little credit for such instances of success, — they 
being probably the work of chance, — but should be held strictly 
accountable for his failures, which may justly be considered his own 
work." 



434 AMERICAN PROSE 



The youth might have taken Baglioni's opinions with many grains 
of allowance had he known that there was a professional warfare of 
long continuance between him and Dr. Rappaccini, in which the latter 
was generally thought to have gained the advantage. If the reader 
be inclined to judge for himself, we refer him to certain black-letter 
tracts on both sides, preserved in the medical department of the Uni- 
versity of Padua. 

"I know not, most learned professor," returned Giovanni, after 
musing on what had been said of Rappaccini's exclusive zeal for 
science, — " I know not how dearly this physician may love his art ; but 
surely there is one object more dear to him. He has a daughter." 

"Aha!" cried the professor, with a laugh. "So now our friend 
Giovanni's secret is out. You have heard of this daughter, whom 
all the young men in Padua are wild about, though not half a dozen 
have ever had the good hap to see her face. I know little of the 
Signora Beatrice save that Rappaccini is said to have instructed her 
deeply in his science, and that, young and beautiful as fame reports 
her, she is already qualified to fill a professor's chair. Perchance 
her father destines her for mine! Other absurd rumors there be, not 
worth talking about or listening to. So now, Signor Giovanni, drink 
off your glass of lacryma." 

Guasconti returned to his lodgings somewhat heated with the 
wine he had quaffed, and which caused his brain to swim with strange 
fantasies in reference to Dr. Rappaccini and the beautiful Beatrice. 
On his way, happening to pass by a florist's, he bought a fresh bouquet 
of flowers. 

Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near the window, 
but within the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he 
could look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. 
All beneath his eye was a solitude. The strange plants were basking 
in the sunshine, and now and then nodding gently to one another, 
as if in acknowledgment of sympathy and kindred. In the midst, by 
the shattered fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, with its purple 
gems clustering all over it; they glowed in the air, and gleamed back 
again out of the depths of the pool, which thus seemed to overflow with 
colored radiance from the rich reflection that was steeped in it. At 
first, as we have said, the garden was a solitude. Soon, however, — 
as Giovanni had half hoped, half feared, would be the case, — a figure 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 435 

appeared beneath the antique sculptured portal, and came down be- 
tween the rows of plants, inhaling their various perfumes as if she were 
one of those beings of old classic fable that lived upon sweet odors. On 
again beholding Beatrice, the young man was even startled to perceive 
how much her beauty exceeded his recollection of it; so brilliant, so 
vivid, was its character, that she glowed amid the sunlight, and, as 
Giovanni whispered to himself, positively illuminated the more 
shadowy intervals of the garden path. Her face being now more 
revealed than on the former occasion, he was struck by its expression 
of simplicity and sweetness — qualities that had not entered into his 
idea of her character, and which made him ask anew what manner 
of mortal she might be. Nor did he fail again to observe, or imagine, 
an analogy between the beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub that 
hung its gemlike flowers over the fountain — a resemblance which 
Beatrice seemed to have indulged a fantastic humor in heightening, 
both by the arrangement of her dress and the selection of its hues. 

Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms, as with a 
passionate ardor, and drew its branches into an intimate embrace — 
so intimate that her features were hidden in its leafy bosom and her 
glistening ringlets all intermingled with the flowers. 

"Give me thy breath, my sister," exclaimed Beatrice; "for I am 
faint with common air. And give me this flower of thine, which I 
separate with gentlest fingers from the stem and place it close beside 
my heart." 

With these words the beautiful daughter of Rappaccini plucked 
one of the richest blossoms of the shrub, and was about to fasten it in 
her bosom. But now, unless Giovanni's draughts of wine had 
bewildered his senses, a singular incident occurred. A small orange- 
colored reptile, of the lizard or chameleon species, chanced to be 
creeping along the path, just at the feet of Beatrice. It appeared to 
Giovanni, — but, at the distance from which he gazed, he could scarcely 
have seen any thing so minute, — it appeared to him, however, that a 
drop or two of moisture from the broken stem of the flower descended 
upon the lizard's head. For an instant the reptile contorted itself 
violently, and then lay motionless in the sunshine. Beatrice observed 
this remarkable phenomenon, and crossed herself, sadly, but without 
surprise; nor did she therefore hesitate to arrange the fatal flower 
in her bosom. There it blushed, and almost glimmered with the 



436 AMERICAN PROSE 



dazzling effect of a precious stone, adding to her dress and aspect the 
one appropriate charm which nothing else in the world could have 
supplied. But Giovanni, out of the shadow of his window, bent 
forward and shrank back, and murmured and trembled. 

"Am I awake ? Have I my senses ? " said he to himself. "What 
is this being? Beautiful shall I call her, or inexpressibly terrible?" 

Beatrice now strayed carelessly through the garden, approaching 
closer beneath Giovanni's window, so that he was compelled to thrust 
his head quite out of its concealment in order to gratify the intense 
and painful curiosity which she excited. At this moment there came 
a beautiful insect over the garden wall: it had, perhaps, wandered 
through the city, and found no flowers or verdure among those 
antique haunts of men until the heavy perfumes of Dr. Rappaccini's 
shrubs had lured it from afar. Without alighting on the flowers, 
this winged brightness seemed to be attracted by Beatrice, and 
lingered in the air and fluttered about her head. Now, here it could 
not be but that Giovanni Guasconti's eyes deceived him. Be that as 
it might, he fancied that, while Beatrice was gazing at the insect with 
childish delight, it grew faint and fell at her feet; its bright wings 
shivered; it was dead — from no cause that he could discern, unless it 
were the atmosphere of her breath. Again Beatrice crossed herself 
and sighed heavily as she bent over the dead insect. 

An impulsive movement of Giovanni drew her eyes to the window. 
There she beheld the beautiful head of the young man — rather a 
Grecian than an Italian head, with fair, regular features, and a glisten- 
ing of gold among his ringlets — gazing down upon her like a being that 
hovered in mid-air. Scarcely knowing what he did, Giovanni threw 
down the bouquet which he had hitherto held in his hand. 

"Signora," said he, "there are pure and healthful flowers. Wear 
them for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti." 

"Thanks, signor," replied Beatrice, with her rich voice, that 
came forth as it were like a gush of music, and with a mirthful expres- 
sion half childish and half womanlike. "I accept your gift, and 
would fain recompense it with this precious purple flower; but, if I 
toss it into the air, it will not reach you. So Signor Guasconti must 
even content himself with my thanks." 

She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then, as if inwardly 
ashamed at having stepped aside from her maidenly reserve to respond 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 437 

to a stranger's greeting, passed swiftly homeward through the garden. 
But, few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni, when she was on 
the point of vanishing beneath the sculptured portal, that his beauti- 
ful bouquet was already beginning to wither in her grasp. It was an 
idle thought; there could be no possibility of distinguishing a faded 
flower from a fresh one at so great a distance. 

For many days after this incident the young man avoided the 
window that looked into Dr. Rappaccini's garden, as if something 
ugly and monstrous would have blasted his eyesight had he been 
betrayed into a glance. He felt conscious of having put himself, to 
a certain extent, within the influence of an unintelligible power by the 
conmnmication which he had opened with Beatrice. The wisest 
course would have been, if his heart were in any real danger, to quit his 
lodgings and Padua itself at once; the next wiser, to have accus- 
tomed himself, as far as possible, to the familiar and daylight view 
of Beatrice — thus bringing her rigidly and systematically within the 
limits of ordinary experience. Least of all, while avoiding her sight, 
ought Giovanni to have remained so near this extraordinary being 
that the proximity and possibility even of intercourse should give a 
kind of substance and reality to the wild vagaries which his imagina- 
tion ran riot continually in producing. Guasconti had not a deep 
heart — or, at all events, its depths were not sounded now; but he 
had a quick fancy, and an ardent southern temperament, which rose 
every instant to a higher fever pitch. Whether or no Beatrice pos- 
sessed those terrible attributes, that fatal breath, the affinity with 
those so beautiful and deadly flowers which were indicated by what 
Giovanni had witnessed, she had at least instilled a fierce and subtle 
poison into his system. It was not love, although her rich beauty 
was a madness to him; nor horror, even while he fancied her spirit 
to be imbued with the same baneful essence that seemed to pervade 
her physical frame; but a wild offspring of both love and horror that 
had each parent in it, and burned like one and shivered like the other. 
Giovanni knew not what to dread; still less did he know what to 
hope; yet hope and dread kept a continual warfare in his breast, 
alternately vanquishing, one another and starting up afresh to renew 
the contest. Blessed are all simple emotions, be they dark or bright! 
It is the lurid intermixture of the two that produces the illuminating 
blaze of the infernal regions. 



438 AMERICAN PROSE 



Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by a 
rapid walk through the streets of Padua or beyond its gates; his 
footsteps kept time with the throbbings of his brain, so that the walk 
was apt to accelerate itself to a race. One day he found himself 
arrested; his arm was seized by a portly personage, who had turned 
back on recognizing the young man and expended much breath in 
overtaking him. 

"Signor Giovanni! Stay, my young friend!" cried he. "Have 
you forgotten me ? That might well be the case if I were as much 
altered as yourself." 

It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided ever since their 
first meeting, from a doubt that the professor's sagacity would look 
too deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring to recover himself, he 
stared forth wildly from his inner world into the outer one and spoke 
like a man in a dream. 

"Yes; I am Giovanni Guasconti. You are Professor Pietro 
Baglioni. Now let me pass!" 

"Not yet, not yet, Signor Giovanni Guasconti," said the pro- 
fessor, smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing the youth with an 
earnest glance. "What! did I grow up side by side with your father ? 
and shall his son pass me like a stranger in these old streets of Padua ? 
Stand still, Signor Giovanni; for we must have a word or two before 
we part." 

"Speedily, then, most worshipful professor, speedily," said 
Giovanni, with feverish impatience. ' ' Does not your worship see that 
I am in haste?" 

Now, while he was speaking, there came a man in black along the 
street, stooping and moving feebly like a person in inferior health. 
His face was all overspread with a most sickly and sallow hue, 
but yet so pervaded with an expression of piercing and active 
intellect that an observer might easily have overlooked the merely 
physical attributes and have seen only this wonderful energy. As 
he passed, this person exchanged a cold and distant salutation 
with Baglioni, but fixed his eyes upon Giovanni with an intent- 
ness that seemed to bring out whatever was within him worthy of 
notice. Nevertheless, there was a peculiar quietness in the look, as 
if taking merely a speculative, not a human, interest in the young 
man. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 439 

" It is Dr. Rappaccini ! " whispered the professor when the stranger 
had passed. "Has he ever seen your face before ? " 

"Not that I know," answered Giovanni, starting at the name. 

"He has seen you! he must have seen you! " said Baglioni, hastily. 
" For some purpose or other, this man of science is making a study of 
you. I know that look of his ! It is the same that coldly illuminates 
his face as he bends over a bird, a mouse, or a butterfly; which, in 
pursuance of some experiment, he has killed by the perfume of a 
flower; a look as deep as Nature itself, but without Nature's warmth 
of love. Signor Giovanni, I will stake my life upon it, you are the 
subject of one of Rappaccini's experiments!" 

"Will you make a fool of me?" cried Giovanni, passionately. 
"That, signor professor, were an untoward experiment." 

"Patience! patience!" replied the imperturbable professor. 
"I tell thee, my poor Giovanni, that Rappaccini has a scientific 
interest in thee. Thou hast fallen into fearful hands! And the 
Signora Beatrice, what part does she act in this mystery?" 

But Guasconti, finding Baglioni's pertinacity intolerable, here 
broke away, and was gone before the professor could again seize his 
arm. He looked after the young man intently and shook his head. 

"This must not be," said Baglioni to himself. "The youth is the 
son of my old friend, and shall not come to any harm from which the 
arcana of medical science can preserve him. Besides, it is too insuffer- 
able an impertinence in Rappaccini thus to snatch the lad out of my 
own hands, as I may say, and make use of him for his infernal experi- 
ments. This daughter of his! It shall be looked to. Perchance, 
most learned Rappaccini, I may foil you where you little dream 
of it." 

Meanwhile Giovanni had pursued a circuitous route, and at 
length found himself at the door of his lodgings. As he crossed the 
threshold he was met by old Lisabetta, who smirked and smiled, and 
was evidently desirous to attract his attention ; vainly, however, as the 
ebullition of his feelings had momentarily subsided into a cold and 
dull vacuity. He turned his eyes full upon the withered face that was 
puckering itself into a smile, but seemed to behold it not. The old 
dame, therefore, laid her grasp npon his cloak. 

"Signor! signor!" whispered she, still with a smile over the whole 
breadth of her visage, so that it looked not unlike a grotesque carving 



440 AMERICAN PROSE 



in wood, darkened by centuries. "Listen, signor! There is a 
private entrance into the garden!" 

"What do you say ?" exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about, 
as if an inanimate thing should start into feverish life. "A private 
entrance into Dr. Rappaccini's garden ? " 

"Hush! hush! not so loud!" whispered Lisabetta, putting her 
hand over his mouth. "Yes; into the worshipful doctor's garden, 
where you may see all his fine shrubbery. Many a young man in 
Padua would give gold to be admitted among those flowers." 

Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand. 

"Show me the way," said he. 

A surmise, probably excited by his conversation with Baglioni, 
crossed his mind, that this interposition of old Lisabetta might per- 
chance be connected with the intrigue, whatever were its nature, in 
which the professor seemed to suppose that Dr. Rappaccini was 
involving him. But such a suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni, 
was inadequate to restrain him. The instant that he was aware of the 
possibility of approaching Beatrice, it seemed an absolute necessity 
of his existence to do so. It mattered not whether she were angel 
or demon; he was irrevocably within her sphere, and must obey the 
law that whirled him onward, in ever-lessening circles, towards a 
result which he did not attempt to foreshadow; and yet, strange 
to say, there came across him a sudden doubt whether this intense 
interest on his part were not delusory; whether it were really of 
so deep and positive a nature as to justify him in now thrusting 
himself into an incalculable position; whether it were not merely 
the fantasy of a young man's brain, only slightly or not at all con- 
nected with his heart. 

He paused, hesitated, turned half about, but again went on. 
His withered guide led him along several obscure passages, and finally 
undid a door, through which, as it was opened, there came the sight 
and sound of rustling leaves, with the broken sunshine glimmering 
among them. Giovanni stepped forth, and, forcing himself through 
the entanglement of a shrub that wreathed its tendrils over the 
hidden entrance, stood beneath his own window in the open area of 
Dr. Rappaccini's garden. 

How often is it the case that, when impossibilities have come to 
pass and dreams have condensed their misty substance into tangible 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 441 

realities, we find ourselves calm, and even coldly self-possessed, 
amid circumstances which it would have been a delirium of joy or 
agony to anticipate! Fate delights to thwart us thus. Passion will 
choose his own time to rush upon the scene, and lingers sluggishly 
behind when an appropriate adjustment of events would seem to 
summon his appearance. So was it now with Giovanni. Day after 
day his pulses had throbbed with feverish blood at the improbable 
idea of an interview with Beatrice, and of standing with her, face to 
face, in this very garden, basking in the Oriental sunshine of her 
beauty, and snatching from her full gaze the mystery which he 
deemed the riddle of his own existence. But now there was a 
singular and untimely equanimity within his breast. He threw a 
glance around the garden to discover if Beatrice or her father were 
present, and, perceiving that he was alone, began a critical obser- 
vation of the plants. 

The aspect of one and all of them dissatisfied him; their gorgeous- 
ness seemed fierce, passionate, and even unnatural. There was 
hardly an individual shrub which a wanderer, straying by himself 
through a forest, would not have been startled to find growing wild, 
as if an unearthly face had glared at him out of the thicket. Several 
also would have shocked a delicate instinct by an appearance of 
artificialness indicating that there had been such commixture, and, 
as it were, adultery of various vegetable species, that the production 
was no longer of God's making, but the monstrous offspring of man's 
depraved fancy, glowing with only an evil mockery of beauty. They 
were probably the result of experiment, which in one or two cases 
had succeeded in mingling plants individually lovely into a compound 
possessing the questionable and ominous character that distinguished 
the whole growth of the garden. In fine, Giovanni recognized but 
two or three plants in the collection, and those of a kind that he well 
knew to be poisonous. While busy with these contemplations he 
heard the rustling of a silken garment, and, turning, beheld Beatrice 
emerging from beneath the sculptured portal. 

Giovanni had not considered with himself what should be his 
deportment; whether he should apologize for his intrusion into the 
garden, or assume that he was there with the privity at least, if not 
by the desire, of Dr. Rappaccini or his daughter; but Beatrice's 
manner placed him at his ease, though leaving him still in doubt by 



442 AMERICAN PROSE 



what agency he had gained admittance. She came lightly along the 
path and met him near the broken fountain. There was surprise 
in her face, but brightened by a simple and kind expression of 
pleasure. 

"You are a connoisseur in flowers, signor," said Beatrice, with a 
smile, alluding to the bouquet which he had flung her from the 
window. "It is no marvel, therefore, if the sight of my father's 
rare collection has tempted you to take a nearer view. If he were 
here, he could tell you many strange and interesting facts as to the 
nature and habits of these shrubs; for he has spent a lifetime in such 
studies, and this garden is his world." 

"And yourself, lady," observed Giovanni, "if fame says true, — 
you likewise are deeply skilled in the virtues indicated by these rich 
blossoms and these spicy perfumes. Would you deign to be my 
instructress, I should prove an apter scholar than if taught by Signor 
Rappaccini himself." 

"Are there such idle rumors ? " asked Beatrice, with the music of a 
pleasant laugh. "Do people say that I am skilled in my father's 
science of plants ? What a jest is there! No; though I have grown 
up among these flowers, I know no more of them than their hues and 
perfume; and sometimes methinks I would fain rid myself of even 
that small knowledge. There are many flowers here, and those not 
the least brilliant, that shock and offend me when they meet my 
eye. But, pray, signor, do not believe these stories about my science. 
Believe nothing of me save what you see with your own eyes." 

"And must I believe all that I have seen with my own eyes?" 
asked Giovanni, pointedly, while the recollection of former scenes 
made him shrink. "No, signor a; you demand too little of me. Bid 
me believe nothing save what comes from your own lips." 

It would appear that Beatrice understood him. There came a 
deep flush to her cheek; but she looked full into Giovanni's eyes, 
and responded to his gaze of uneasy suspicion with a queenlike 
haughtiness. 

"I do so bid you, signor," she replied. "Forget whatever you 
may have fancied in regard to me. If true to the outward senses, 
still it may be false in its essence; but the words of Beatrice Rap- 
paccini's lips are true from the depths of the heart outward. Those 
you may believe." 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 443 

A fervor glowed in her whole aspect and beamed upon Giovanni's 
consciousness like the light of truth itself; but while she spoke there 
was a fragrance in the atmosphere around her, rich and delightful, 
though evanescent, yet which the young man, from an indefinable 
reluctance, scarcely dared to draw into his lungs. It might be the 
odor of the flowers. Could it be Beatrice's breath which thus 
embalmed her words with a strange richness, as if by steeping them 
in her heart ? A faintness passed like a shadow over Giovanni and 
flitted away; he seemed to gaze through the beautiful girl's eyes 
into her transparent soul, and felt no more doubt or fear. 

The tinge of passion that had colored Beatrice's manner vanished ; 
she became gay, and appeared to derive a pure delight from her com- 
munion with the youth not unlike what the maiden of a lonely island 
might have felt conversing with a voyager from the civilized world. 
Evidently her experience of life had been confined within the limits 
of that garden. She talked now about matters as simple as the 
daylight or summer clouds, and now asked questions in reference to 
the city, or Giovanni's distant home, his friends, his mother, and his 
sisters — questions indicating such seclusion, and such lack of famili- 
arity with modes and forms, that Giovanni responded as if to an 
infant. Her spirit gushed out before him like a fresh rill that was 
just catching its first glimpse of the sunlight and wondering at the 
reflections of earth and sky which were flung into its bosom. There 
came thoughts, too, from a deep source, and fantasies of a gemlike 
brilliancy, as if diamonds and rubies sparkled upward among the 
bubbles of the fountain. Ever and anon there gleamed across the 
young man's mind a sense of wonder that he should be walking side 
by side with the being who had so wrought upon his imagination, 
whom he had idealized in such hues of terror, in whom he had posi- 
tively witnessed such manifestations of dreadful attributes — that he 
should be conversing with Beatrice like a brother, and should find 
her so human and so maidenlike. But such reflections were only 
momentary; the effect of her character was too real not to make itself 
familiar at once. 

In this free intercourse they had strayed through the garden, 
and now, after many turns among its avenues, were come to the 
shattered fountain, beside which grew the magnificent shrub, with its 
treasury of glowing blossoms. A fragrance was diffused from it which 



444 AMERICAN PROSE 



Giovanni recognized as identical with that which he had attributed 
to Beatrice's breath, but incomparably more powerful. As her 
eyes fell upon it, Giovanni beheld her press her hand to her bosom as 
if her heart were throbbing suddenly and painfully. 

"For the first time in my life," murmured she, addressing the 
shrub, "I had forgotten thee." 

"I remember, signora," said Giovanni, "that you once promised 
to reward me with one of these living gems for the bouquet which I 
had the happy boldness to fling to your feet. Permit me now to 
pluck it as a memorial of this interview." 

He made a step towards the shrub with extended hand; but 
Beatrice darted forward, uttering a shriek that went through his 
heart like a dagger. She caught his hand and drew it back with the 
whole force of her slender figure. Giovanni felt her touch thrilling 
through his fibres. 

"Touch it not!" exclaimed she, in a voice of agony. "Not for 
thy life! It is fatal!" 

Then, hiding her face, she fled from him and vanished beneath 
the sculptured portal. As Giovanni followed her with his eyes, he 
beheld the emaciated figure and pale intelligence of Dr. Rappaccini, 
who had been watching the scene, he knew not how long, within the 
shadow of the entrance. 

No sooner was Guasconti alone in his chamber than the image of 
Beatrice came back to his passionate musings, invested with all the 
witchery that had been gathering around it ever since his first glimpse 
of her, and now likewise imbued with a tender warmth of girlish 
womanhood. She was human; her nature was endowed with all 
gentle and feminine qualities; she was worthiest to be worshipped; 
she was capable, surely, on her part, of the height and heroism of love. 
Those tokens which he had hitherto considered as proofs of a frightful 
peculiarity in her physical and moral system were now either for- 
gotten or by the subtle sophistry of passion transmuted into a golden 
crown of enchantment, rendering Beatrice the more admirable by so 
much as she was the more unique. Whatever had looked ugly was 
now beautiful; or, if incapable of such a change, it stole away and hid 
itself among those shapeless half ideas which throng the dim region 
beyond the daylight of our perfect consciousness. Thus did he spend 
the night, nor fell asleep until the dawn had begun to awake the 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 445 

slumbering flowers in Dr. Rappaccini's garden, whither Giovanni's 
dreams doubtless led him. Up rose the sun in his due season, and, 
flinging his beams upon the young man's eyelids, awoke him to a sense 
of pain. When thoroughly aroused, he became sensible of a burning 
and tingling agony in his hand — in his right hand — the very hand 
which Beatrice had grasped in her own when he was on the point of 
plucking one of the gemlike flowers. On the back of that hand there 
was now a purple print like that of four small fingers, and the likeness 
of a slender thumb upon his wrist. 

O, how stubbornly does love, — or even that cunning semblance 
of love which flourishes in the imagination, but strikes no depth of 
root into the heart, — how stubbornly does it hold its faith until the 
moment comes when it is doomed to vanish into thin mist! Giovanni 
wrapped a handkerchief about his hand and wondered what evil 
thing had stung him, and soon forgot his pain in a revery of Beatrice. 

After the first interview, a second was in the inevitable course of 
what we call fate. A third; a fourth; and a meeting with Beatrice in 
the garden was no longer an incident in Giovanni's daily life, but the 
whole space in which he might be said to live; for the anticipation 
and memory of that ecstatic hour made up the remainder. Nor 
was it otherwise with the daughter of Rappaccini. She watched for 
the youth's appearance and flew to his side with confidence as unre- 
served as if they had been playmates from early infancy — as if they 
were such playmates still. If, by any unwonted chance, he failed 
to come at the appointed moment, she stood beneath the window 
and sent up the rich sweetness of her tones to float around him in 
his chamber and echo and reverberate throughout his heart:. "Gio- 
vanni! Giovanni! Why tarriest thou ? Comedown!" And down 
he hastened into that Eden of poisonous flowers. 

But, with all this intimate familiarity, there was still a reserve in 
Beatrice's demeanor, so rigidly and invariably sustained that the 
idea of infringing it scarcely occurred to his imagination. By all 
appreciable signs, they loved; they had looked love with eyes that 
conveyed the holy secret from the depths of one soul into the depths of 
the other, as if it were too sacred to be whispered by the way; they 
had even spoken love in those gushes of passion when their spirits 
darted forth in articulated breath like tongues of long hidden flame; 
and yet there had been no seal of lips, no clasp of hands, nor any 



446 AMERICAN PROSE 



slightest caress such as love claims and hallows. He had never 
touched one of the gleaming ringlets of her hair; her garment — so 
marked was the physical barrier between them — had never been 
waved against him by a breeze. On the few occasions when Gio- 
vanni had seemed tempted to overstep the limit, Beatrice grew so 
sad, so stern, and withal wore such a look of desolate separation, 
shuddering at itself, that not a spoken word was requisite to repel 
him. At such times he was startled at the horrible suspicions that 
rose, monster-like, out of the caverns of his heart and stared him in 
the face; his love grew thin and faint as the morning mist; his doubts 
alone had substance. But, when Beatrice's face brightened again 
after the momentary shadow, she was transformed at once from the 
mysterious, questionable being whom he had watched with so much 
awe and horror; she was now the beautiful and unsophisticated girl 
whom he felt that his spirit knew with a certainty beyond all other 
knowledge. 

A considerable time had now passed since Giovanni's last meeting 
with Baglioni. One morning, however, he was disagreeably sur- 
prised by a visit from the professor, whom he had scarcely thought 
of for whole weeks, and would willingly have forgotten still longer. 
Given up as he had long been to a pervading excitement, he could 
tolerate no companions except upon condition of their perfect sym- 
pathy with his present state of feeling. Such sympathy was not 
to be expected from Professor Baglioni. 

The visitor chatted carelessly for a few moments about the gossip 
of the city and the university, and then took up another topic. 

"I- have been reading an old classic author lately," said he, 
"and met with a story that strangely interested me. Possibly 
you may remember it. It is of an Indian prince, who sent a beauti- 
ful woman as a present to Alexander the Great. She was as lovely as 
the dawn and gorgeous as the sunset; but what especially distin- 
guished her was a certain rich perfume in her breath — richer than a 
garden of Persian roses. Alexander, as was natural to a youthful 
conqueror, fell in love at first sight with this magnificent stranger; 
but a certain sage physician happening to be present, discovered a 
terrible secret in regard to her." 

"And what was that?" asked Giovanni, turning his eyes down- 
ward to avoid those of the professor. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 447 

"That this lovely woman," continued Baglioni, with emphasis, 
"had been nourished with poisons from her birth upward, until her 
whole nature was so imbued with them that she herself had become the 
deadliest poison in existence. Poison was her element of life. With 
that rich perfume of her breath she blasted the very air. Her love would 
have been poison — her embrace death. Is not this a marvellous tale ?" 

"A childish fable," answered Giovanni, nervously starting from 
his chair. "I marvel how your worship finds time to read such 
Qonsense among your graver studies." 

"By the by," said the professor, looking uneasily about him, 
"what singular fragrance is this in your apartment? Is it the per- 
fume of your gloves? It is faint, but delicious; and yet, after all, 
by no means agreeable. Were I to breathe it long, me thinks it 
would make me ill. It is like the breath of a flower; but I see no 
flowers in the chamber." 

"Nor are there any," replied Giovanni, who had turned pale as 
the professor spoke; "nor, I think, is there any fragrance except in 
your worship's imagination. Odors, being a sort of element com- 
bined of the sensual and the spiritual, are apt to deceive us in this 
manner. The recollection of a perfume, the bare idea of it, may 
easily be mistaken for a present reality." 

"Ay; but my sober imagination does not often play such tricks," 
said Baglioni; "and, were I to fancy any kind of odor, it would be 
that of some vile apothecary drug, wherewith my fingers are likely 
enough to be imbued. Our worshipful friend Rappaccini, as I have 
heard, tinctures his medicaments with odors richer than those of 
Araby. Doubtless, likewise, the fair and learned Signora Beatrice 
would minister to her patients with draughts as sweet as a maiden's 
breath; but woe to him that sips them!" 

Giovanni's face evinced many contending emotions. The tone 
in which the professor alluded to the pure and lovely daughter of 
Rappaccini was a torture to his soul; and yet the intimation of a view 
of her character, opposite to his own, gave instantaneous distinctness 
to a thousand dim suspicions, which now grinned at him like so many 
demons. But he strove hard to quell them and to respond to Baglioni 
with a true lover's perfect faith. 

"Signor professor," said he, "you were my father's friend; per- 
chance, too, it is your purpose to act a friendly part towards his son. 



448 AMERICAN PROSE 



I would fain feel nothing towards you save respect and deference; but 
I pray you to observe, signor, that there is one subject on which we 
must not speak. You know not the Signora Beatrice. You cannot, 
therefore, estimate the wrong — the blasphemy, I may even say — 
that is offered to her character by a light or injurious word." 

"Giovanni! my poor Giovanni!" answered the professor, with 
a calm expression of pity, "I know this wretched girl far better than 
yourself. You shall hear the truth in respect to the poisoner Rap- 
paccini and his poisonous daughter; yes, poisonous as she is beauti- 
ful. Listen; for, even should you do violence to my gray hairs, it 
shall not silence me. That old fable of the Indian woman has 
become a truth by the deep and deadly science of Rappaccini and in 
the person of the lovely Beatrice." 

Giovanni groaned and hid his face. 

"Her father," continued Baglioni, "was not restrained by natural 
affection from offering up his child in this horrible manner as the 
victim of his insane zeal for science; for, let us do him justice, he is as 
true a man of science as ever distilled his own heart in an alembic. 
What, then, will be your fate ? Beyond a doubt you are selected 
as the material of some new experiment. Perhaps the result is to be 
death; perhaps a fate more awful still. Rappaccini, with what he 
calls the interest of science before his eyes, will hesitate at nothing." 

"It is a dream," muttered Giovanni to himself; "surely it is a 
dream." 

"But," resumed the professor, "be of good cheer, son of my 
friend. It is not yet too late for the rescue. Possibly we may even 
succeed in bringing back this miserable child within the limits of 
ordinary nature, from which her father's madness has estranged her. 
Behold this little silver vase! It was wrought by the hands of the 
renowned Benvenuto Cellini, and is well worthy to be a love gift to 
the fairest dame in Italy. But its contents are invaluable. One 
little sip of this antidote would have rendered the most virulent 
poisons of the Borgias innocuous. Doubt not that it will be as effica- 
cious against those of Rappaccini. Bestow the vase, and the precious 
liquid within it, on your Beatrice, and hopefully await the result." 

Baglioni laid a small, exquisitely wrought silver vial on the table 
and withdrew, leaving what he had said to produce its effect upon 
the young man's mind. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 449 

"We will thwart Rappaccini yet," thought he, chuckling 
to himself, as he descended the stairs; "but, let us confess the 
truth of him, he is a wonderful man — a wonderful man indeed; 
a vile empiric, however, in his practice, and therefore not to be 
tolerated by those who respect the good old rules of the medical 
profession." 

Throughout Giovanni's whole acquaintance with Beatrice, he 
had occasionally, as we have said, been haunted by dark surmises as to 
her character; yet so thoroughly had she made herself felt by him as 
a simple, natural, most affectionate, and guileless creature, that the 
image now held up by Professor Baglioni looked as strange and 
incredible as if it were not in accordance with his own original con- 
ception. True, there were ugly recollections connected with his 
first glimpses of the beautiful girl; he could not quite forget the 
bouquet that withered in her grasp, and the insect that perished amid 
the sunny air, by no ostensible agency save the fragrance of her 
breath. These incidents, however, dissolving in the pure light of her 
character, had no longer the efficacy of facts, but were acknowledged 
as mistaken fantasies, by whatever testimony of the senses they 
might appear to be substantiated. There is something truer and 
more real than what we can see with the eyes and touch with the 
finger. On such better evidence had Giovanni founded his confidence 
in Beatrice, though rather by the necessary force of her high attri- 
butes than by any deep and generous faith on his part. But now his 
spirit was incapable of sustaining itself at the height to which the 
early enthusiasm of passion had exalted it; he fell down, grovelling 
among earthly doubts, and defiled therewith the pure whiteness of 
Beatrice's image. Not that he gave her up; he did but distrust. He 
resolved to institute some decisive test that should satisfy him, once 
for all, whether there were those dreadful peculiarities in her physical 
nature which could not be supposed to exist without some corre- 
sponding monstrosity of soul. His eyes, gazing down afar, might 
have deceived him as to the lizard, the insect, and the flowers; but if 
he could witness, at the distance of a few paces, the sudden blight of 
one fresh and healthful flower in Beatrice's hand, there would be room 
for no further question. With this idea he hastened to the florist's 
and purchased a bouquet that was still gemmed with the morning 
dewdrops. 



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It was now the customary hour of his daily interview with 
Beatrice. Before descending into the garden, Giovanni failed not to 
look at his figure in the mirror — a vanity to be expected in a beautiful 
young man, yet, as displaying itself at that troubled and feverish 
moment, the token of a certain shallowness of feeling and insincerity 
of character. He did gaze, however, and said to himself that his 
features had never before possessed so rich a grace, nor his eyes such 
vivacity, nor his cheeks so warm a hue of superabundant life. 

"At least," thought he, "her poison has not yet insinuated itself 
into my system. I am no flower to perish in her grasp." 

With that thought he turned his eyes on the bouquet, which he 
had never once laid aside from his hand. A thrill of indefinable 
horror shot through his frame on perceiving that those dewy flowers 
were already beginning to droop; they wore the aspect of things that 
had been fresh and lovely yesterday. Giovanni grew white as marble, 
and stood motionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflection 
there as at the likeness of something frightful. He remembered 
Baglioni's remark about the fragrance that seemed to pervade the 
chamber. It must have been the poison in his breath! Then he 
shuddered — shuddered at himself. Recovering from his stupor, he 
began to watch with curious eye a spider that was busily at work hang- 
ing its web from the antique cornice of the apartment, crossing and 
recrossing the artful system of interwoven lines — as vigorous and 
active a spider as ever dangled from an old ceiling. Giovanni bent 
towards the insect, and emitted a deep, long breath. The spider 
suddenly ceased its toil; the web vibrated with a tremor originating 
in the body of the small artisan. Again Giovanni sent forth a breath, 
deeper, longer, and imbued with a venomous feeling out of his heart: 
he knew not whether he were wicked, or only desperate. The spider 
made a convulsive gripe with his limbs and hung dead across the 
window. 

"Accursed! accursed!" muttered Giovanni, addressing himself. 
"Hast thou grown so poisonous that this deadly insect perishes by thy 
breath?" 

At that moment a rich, sweet voice came floating up from the 
garden. 

"Giovanni! Giovanni! It is past the hour! Why tarriest 
thou ? Come do wn ! " 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 451 

"Yes," muttered Giovanni again. "She is the only being whom 
my breath may not slay! Would that it might!" 

He rushed down, and in an instant was standing before the bright 
and loving eyes of Beatrice. A moment ago his wrath and despair 
had been so fierce that he could have desired nothing so much as to 
wither her by a glance; but with her actual presence there came 
influences which had too real an existence to be at once shaken off; 
recollections of the delicate and benign power of her feminine nature, 
which had so often enveloped him in a religious calm; recollections 
of many a holy and passionate outgush of her heart, when the pure 
fountain had been unsealed from its depths and made visible in its 
transparency to his mental eye; recollections which, had Giovanni 
known how to estimate them, would have assured him that all this 
ugly mystery was but an earthly illusion, and that, whatever mist of 
evil might seem to have gathered over her, the real Beatrice was a 
heavenly angel. Incapable as he was of such high faith, still her 
presence had not utterly lost its magic. Giovanni's rage was quelled 
into an aspect of sullen insensibility. Beatrice, with a quick spiritual 
sense, immediately felt that there was a gulf of blackness between 
them which neither he nor she could pass. They walked on together, 
sad and silent, and came thus to the marble fountain and to its pool 
of water on the ground, in the midst of which grew the shrub that 
bore gemlike blossoms. Giovanni was affrighted at the eager 
enjoyment — the appetite, as it were— with which he found himself 
inhaling the fragrance of the flowers. 

"Beatrice," asked he, abruptly, "whence came this shrub?" 

"My father created it," answered she, with simplicity. 

"Created it! created it!" repeated Giovanni. "What mean 
you, Beatrice ?" 

"He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of Nature," 
replied Beatrice; "and, at the hour when I first drew breath, this 
plant sprang from the soil, the offspring of his science, of his intellect, 
while I was but his earthly child. Approach it not!" continued she, 
observing with terror that Giovanni was drawing nearer to the shrub. 
"It has qualities that you little dream of. But I, dearest Giovanni, — 
I grew up and blossomed with the plant and was nourished with its 
breath. It was my sister, and I loved it with a human affection; 
for, alas! — hast thou not suspected it? — there was an awful doom." 



452 AMERICAN PROSE 



Here Giovanni frowned so darkly upon her that Beatrice paused 
and trembled. But her faith in his tenderness reassured her, and 
made her blush that she had doubted for an instant. 

"There was an awful doom," she continued, "the effect of my 
father's fatal love of science, which estranged me from all society of 
my kind. Until Heaven sent thee, dearest Giovanni, O, how lonely 
was thy poor Beatrice!" 

"Was it a hard doom ?" asked Giovanni, fixing his eyes upon her. 

"Only of late have I known how hard it was," answered she, 
tenderly. "O, yes; but my heart was torpid, and therefore quiet." 

Giovanni's rage broke forth from his sullen gloom like a lightning 
flash out of a dark cloud. 

"Accursed one!" cried he, with venomous scorn and anger. 
"And finding thy solitude wearisome, thou hast severed me likewise 
from all the warmth of life and enticed me into thy region of unspeak- 
able horror!" 

"Giovanni!" exclaimed Beatrice, turning her large bright eyes 
upon his face. The force of his words had not found its way into her 
mind; she was merely thunderstruck. 

"Yes, poisonous thing!" repeated Giovanni, beside himself with 
passion. "Thou hast done it! Thou hast blasted me! Thou hast 
filled my veins with poison! Thou hast made me as hateful, as ugly, 
as loathsome and deadly a creature as thyself — a world's wonder of 
hideous monstrosity! Now, if our breath be happily as fatal to our- 
selves as to all others, let us join our lips in one kiss of unutterable 
hatred, and so die!" 

"What has befallen me?" murmured Beatrice, with a low moan 
out of her heart. "Holy Virgin, pity me, a poor heart-broken 
child!" 

"Thou, — dost thou pray?" cried Giovanni, still with the same 
fiendish scorn. " Thy very prayers, as they come from thy lips, taint 
the atmosphere with death. Yes, yes; let us pray! Let us to church 
and dip our fingers in the holy water at the portal! They that 
come after us will perish as by a pestilence! Let us sign crosses in the 
air! It will be scattering curses abroad in the likeness of holy sym- 
bols!" 

"Giovanni," said Beatrice, calmly, for her grief was beyond 
passion, "why dost thou join thyself with me thus in those terrible 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 453 

words ? I, it is true, am the horrible thing thou namest me. But 
thou, — what hast thou to do, save with one other shudder at my 
hideous misery to go forth out of the garden and mingle with thy race, 
and forget that there ever crawled on earth such a monster as poor 
Beatrice?" 

"Dost thou pretend ignorance ?" asked Giovanni, scowling upon 
her. "Behold! this power have I gained from the pure daughter of 
Rappaccini." 

There was a swarm of summer insects flitting through the air 
in search of the food promised by the flower odors of the fatal garden. 
They circled round Giovanni's head, and were evidently attracted 
towards him by the same influence which had drawn them for an 
instant within the sphere of several of the shrubs. He sent forth a 
breath among them, and smiled bitterly at Beatrice as at least a score 
of the insects fell dead upon the ground. 

"I see it! I see it!" shrieked Beatrice. " It is my father's fatal 
science! No, no, Giovanni; it was not I! Never! never! I dreamed 
only to love thee and be with thee a little time, and so to let thee pass 
away, leaving but thine image in mine heart; for, Giovanni, believe it, 
though my body be nourished with poison, my spirit is God's creature, 
and craves love as its daily food. But my father, — he has united 
us in this fearful sympathy. Yes; spurn me, tread upon me, kill me! 
O, what is death after such words as thine ? But it was not I. Not 
for a world of bliss would I have done it." 

Giovanni's passion had exhausted itself in its outburst from his 
lips. There now came across him a sense, mournful, and not without 
tenderness, of the intimate and peculiar relationship between Beatrice 
and himself. They stood, as it were, in an utter solitude, which 
would be made none the less solitary by the densest throng of human 
life. Ought not, then, the desert of humanity around them to press 
this insulated pair closer together ? If they should be cruel to one 
another, who was there to be kind to them? Besides, thought 
Giovanni, might there not still be a hope of his returning within the 
limits of ordinary nature, and leading Beatrice, the redeemed Beatrice, 
by the hand ? O, weak, and selfish, and unworthy spirit, that could 
dream of an earthly union and earthly happiness as possible, after 
such deep love had been so bitterly wronged as was Beatrice's love by 
Giovanni's blighting words! No, no; there could be no such hope. 



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She must pass heavily, with that broken heart, across the borders of 
Time — she must bathe her hurts in some fount of paradise, and forget 
her grief in the light of immortality, and there be well. 

But Giovanni did not know it. ■ 

"Dear Beatrice," said he, approaching her, while she shrank 
away as always at his approach, but now with a different impulse, 
"dearest Beatrice, our fate is not yet so desperate. Behold! there 
is a medicine, potent, as a wise physician has assured me, and almost 
divine in its efficacy. It is composed of ingredients the most opposite 
to those by which thy awful father has brought this calamity upon 
thee and me. It is distilled of blessed herbs. Shall we not quaff it 
together, and thus be purified from evil?" 

"Give it me!" said Beatrice, extending her hand to receive the 
little silver vial which Giovanni took from his bosom. She added, 
with a peculiar emphasis, "I will drink; but do thou await the result." 

She put Baglioni's antidote to her lips; and, at the same moment, 
the figure of Rappaccini emerged from the portal and came slowly 
towards the marble fountain. As he drew near, the pale man of 
science seemed to gaze with a triumphant expression at the beautiful 
youth and maiden, as might an artist who should spend his life in 
achieving a picture or a group of statuary and finally be satisfied 
with his success. He paused; his bent form grew erect with 
conscious power; he spread out his hands over them in the attitude of 
a father imploring a blessing upon his children; but those were the 
same hands that had thrown poison into the stream of their lives. 
Giovanni trembled. Beatrice shuddered nervously, and pressed her 
hand upon her heart. 

"My daughter," said Rappaccini, "thou art no longer lonely in 
the world. Pluck one of those precious gems from thy sister shrub 
and bid thy bridegroom wear it in his bosom. It will not harm him 
now. My science and the sympathy between thee and him have 
so wrought within his system that he now stands apart from common 
men, as thou dost, daughter of my pride and triumph, from ordinary 
women. Pass on, then, through the world, most dear to one another 
and dreadful to all besides!" 

"My father," said Beatrice, feebly, — and still as she spoke she 
kept her hand upon her heart, — "wherefore didst thou inflict this 
miserable doom upon thy child?" 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 455 

"Miserable!" exclaimed Rappaccini. "What mean you, foolish 
girl ? Dost thou deem it misery to be endowed with marvellous gifts 
against which no power nor strength could avail an enemy — misery, to 
be able to quell the mightiest with a breath — misery, to be as terrible 
as thou art beautiful? Wouldst -thou, then, have preferred the 
condition of a weak woman, exposed to all evil and capable of 
none?" 

"I would fain have been loved, not feared," murmured Beatrice, 
sinking down upon the ground. "But now it matters not. I am 
going, father, where the evil which thou hast striven to mingle with 
my being will pass away like a dream — like the fragrance of these 
poisonous flowers, which will no longer taint my breath among the 
flowers of Eden. Farewell, Giovanni! Thy words of hatred are 
like lead within my heart; but they, too, will fall away as I ascend. 
O, was there not, from the first, more poison in thy nature than in 
mine?" 

To Beatrice, — so radically had her earthly part been wrought 
upon by Rappaccini's skill, — as poison had been life, so the powerful 
antidote was death; and thus the poor victim of man's ingenuity 
and of thwarted nature, and of the fatality that attends all such efforts 
of perverted wisdom, perished there, at the feet of her father and 
Giovanni. Just at that moment Professor Pietro Baglioni looked 
forth from the window, and called loudly, in a tone of triumph mixed 
with horror, to the thunderstricken man of science, — ■ 

"Rappaccini! Rappaccini! and is this the upshot of your ex- 
periment ?" 

FEATHERTOP; A MORALIZED LEGEND 

"Dickon," cried Mother Rigby, "a coal for my pipe!" 
The pipe was in the old dame's mouth when she said these words. 
She had thrust it there after filling it with tobacco, but without 
stooping to light it at the hearth, where indeed there was no appear- 
ance of a fire having been kindled that morning. Forthwith, how- 
ever, as soon as the order was given, there was an intense red glow 
out of the bowl of the pipe, and a whiff of smoke from Mother Rigby's 
lips. Whence the coal came, and how brought thither by an invisible 
hand, I have never been able to discover. 



456 AMERICAN PROSE 



1 ' Good ! ' ' quoth Mother Rigby , with a nod of her head. ' ' Thank 
ye, Dickon! And now for making this scarecrow. Be within call, 
Dickon, in case I need you again." 

The good woman had risen thus early, (for as yet it was scarcely 
sunrise,) in order to set about making a scarecrow, which she intended 
to put in the middle of her cornpatch. It was now the latter week 
of May, and the crows and blackbirds had already discovered the 
little, green, rolled-up leaf of the Indian corn just peeping out of the 
soil. She was determined, therefore, to contrive as lifelike a scarecrow 
as ever was seen, and to finish it immediately, from top to toe, so that 
it should begin its sentinel's duty that very morning. Now Mother 
Rigby, (as every body must have heard,) was one of the most cunning 
and potent witches in New England, and might, with very little 
trouble, have made a scarecrow ugly enough to frighten the minister 
himself. But on this occasion, as she had awakened in an uncom- 
monly pleasant humor, and was further dulcified by her pipe of 
tobacco, she resolved to produce something fine, beautiful, and 
splendid, rather than hideous and horrible. 

"I don't want to set up a hobgoblin in my own corn patch, and 
almost at my own doorstep," said Mother Rigby to herself, puffing 
out a whiff of smoke; "I could do it if I pleased, but I 'm tired of 
doing marvellous things, and so I '11 keep within the bounds of every- 
day business, just for variety's sake. Besides, there is no use in 
scaring the little children for a mile roundabout, though 't is true I 'm 
a witch." 

It was settled, therefore, in her own mind, that the scarecrow 
should represent a fine gentleman of the period, so far as the materials 
at hand would allow. Perhaps it may be as well to enumerate the 
chief of the articles that went to the composition of this figure. 

The most important item of all, probably, although it made so 
little show, was a certain broomstick, on which Mother Rigby had 
taken many an airy gallop at midnight, and which now served the 
scarecrow by way of a spinal column, or, as the unlearned phrase it, 
a backbone. One of its arms was a disabled flail which used to be 
wielded by Goodman Rigby, before his spouse worried him out of 
this troublesome world; the other, if I mistake not, was composed 
of the pudding stick and a broken rung of a chair, tied loosely together 
at the elbow. As for its legs, the right was a hoe handle, and the 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 457 

left an undistinguished and miscellaneous stick from the woodpile. 
Its lungs, stomach, and other affairs of that kind were nothing 
better than a meal bag stuffed with straw. Thus we have made out 
the skeleton and entire corporosity of the scarecrow, with the excep- 
tion of its head; and this was admirably supplied by a somewhat 
withered and shrivelled pumpkin, in which Mother Rigby cut two 
holes for the eyes, and a slit for the mouth, leaving a bluish-colored 
knob in the middle to pass for a nose. It was really quite a respect- 
able face. 

"I 've seen worse ones on human shoulders, at any rate," said 
Mother Rigby. "And many a fine gentleman has a pumpkin head, 
as well as my scarecrow." 

But the clothes, in this case, were to be the making of the man. 
So the good old woman took down from a peg an ancient plum- 
colored coat of London make, and with relics of embroidery on its 
seams, cuffs, pocket flaps, and button holes, but lamentably worn and 
faded, patched at the elbows, tattered at the skirts, and threadbare 
all over. On the left breast was a round hole, whence either a star 
of nobility had been rent away, or else the hot heart of some former 
wearer had scorched it through and through. The neighbors said 
that this rich garment belonged to the Black Man's wardrobe, and that 
he kept it at Mother Rigby's cottage for the convenience of slipping 
it on whenever he wished to make a grand appearance at the governor's 
table. To match the coat there was a velvet waistcoat of very ample 
size, and formerly embroidered with foliage that had been as brightly 
golden as the maple leaves in October, but which had now quite 
vanished out of the substance of the velvet. Next came a pair 
of scarlet breeches, once worn by the French governor of Louisbourg, 
and the knees of which had touched the lower step of the throne of 
Louis le Grand. The Frenchman had given these smallclothes to an 
Indian powwow, who parted with them to the old witch for a gill of 
strong waters, at one of their dances in the forest. Furthermore, 
Mother Rigby produced a pair of silk stockings and put them on 
the figure's legs, where they showed as unsubstantial as a dream, with 
the wooden reality of the two sticks making itself miserably apparent 
through the holes. Lastly, she put her dead husband's wig on the bare 
scalp of the pumpkin, and surmounted the whole with a dusty three- 
cornered hat, in which was stuck the longest tail feather of a rooster. 



458 AMERICAN PROSE 



Then the old dame stood the figure up in a corner of her cottage 
and chuckled to behold its yellow semblance of a visage, with its 
nobby little nose thrust into the air. It had a strangely self-satisfied 
aspect, and seemed to say, "Come look at me!" 

"And you are well worth looking at, that 's a fact!" quoth 
Mother Rigby, in admiration at her own handiwork. "I 've made 
many a puppet since I 've been a witch, but methinks this is the 
finest of them all. 'T is almost too good for a scarecrow. And, by 
the by, I '11 just fill a fresh pipe of tobacco and then take him out to 
the corn patch." 

While filling her pipe, the old woman continued to gaze with 
almost motherly affection at the figure in the corner. To say the 
truth, whether it were chance, or skill, or downright witchcraft, 
there was something wonderfully human in this ridiculous shape, 
bedizened with its tattered finery; and as for the countenance, it 
appeared to shrivel its yellow surface into a grin — a funny kind of 
expression betwixt scorn and merriment, as if it understood itself 
to be a jest at mankind. The more Mother Rigby looked the better 
she was pleased. 

"Dickon," cried she sharply, "another coal for my pipe!" 

Hardly had she spoken, than, just as before, there was a red- 
glowing coal on the top of the tobacco. She drew in a long whiff 
and puffed it forth again into the bar of morning sunshine which 
struggled through the one dusty pane of her cottage window. Mother 
Rigby always liked to flavor her pipe with a coal of fire from the 
particular chimney corner whence this had been brought. But 
where that chimney corner might be, or who brought the coal from it 
— further than that the invisible messenger seemed to respond to the 
name of Dickon — I cannot tell. 

"That puppet yonder," thought Mother Rigby, still with her 
eyes fixed on the scarecrow, "is too good a piece of work to stand all 
summer in a corn patch, frightening away the crows and blackbirds. 
He 's capable of better things. Why, I 've danced with a worse one, 
when partners happened to be scarce, at our witch meetings in the 
forest! What if I should let him take his chance among the other 
men of straw and empty fellows who go bustling about the world?" 

The old witch took three or four more whiffs of her pipe and 
smiled. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 459 

"He '11 meet plenty of his brethren at every street corner!" con- 
tinued she. "Well; I did n't mean to dabble in witchcraft to-day, 
further than the lighting of my pipe; but a witch I am, and a witch 
I 'm likely to be, and there's no use trying to shirk it. I '11 make a 
man of my scarecrow, were it only for the joke's sake! " 

While muttering these words Mother Rigby took the pipe from 
her own mouth and thrust it into the crevice which represented the 
same feature in the pumpkin visage of the scarecrow. 

"Puff, darling, puff!" said she. "Puff away, my fine fellow! 
your life depends on it!" 

This was a strange exhortation, undoubtedly, to be addressed 
to a mere thing of sticks, straw, and old clothes, with nothing better 
than a shrivelled pumpkin for a head; as we know to have been the 
scarecrow's case. Nevertheless, as we must carefully hold in remem- 
brance, Mother Rigby was a witch of singular power and dexterity; 
and, keeping this fact duly before our minds, we shall see nothing 
beyond credibility in the remarkable incidents of our story. Indeed, 
the great difficulty will be at once got over, if we can only bring 
ourselves to believe that, as soon as the old dame bade him puff, there 
came a whiff of smoke from the scarecrow's mouth. It was the 
feeblest of whiffs, to be sure; but it was followed by another and 
another, each more decided than the preceding one. 

"Puff away, my pet! puff away, my pretty one!" Mother Rigby 
kept repeating, with her pleasantest smile. "It is the breath of life 
to ye; and that you may take my word for." 

Beyond all question the pipe was bewitched. There must have 
been a spell either in the tobacco or in the fiercely -glowing coal that 
so mysteriously burned on top of it, or in the pungently-aromatic 
smoke which exhaled from the kindled weed. The figure, after a 
few doubtful attempts, at length blew forth a volley of smoke extend- 
ing all the way from the obscure corner into the bar of sunshine. 
There it eddied and melted away among the motes of dust. It 
seemed a convulsive effort; for the two or three next whiffs were 
fainter, although the coal still glowed and threw a gleam over the 
scarecrow's visage. The old witch clapped her skinny hands 
together, and smiled encouragingly upon her handiwork. She saw 
that the charm worked well. The shrivelled, yellow face, which 
heretofore had been no face at all, had already a thin, fantastic 



460 AMERICAN PROSE 



haze, as it were, of human likeness, shifting to and fro across it; 
sometimes vanishing entirely, but growing more perceptible than 
ever with the next whiff from the pipe. The whole figure, in like 
manner, assumed a show of life, such as we impart to ill-defined 
shapes among the clouds, and half deceive ourselves with the pastime 
of our own fancy. 

If we must needs pry closely into the matter, it may be doubted 
whether there was any real change, after all, in the sordid, wornout, 
worthless, and ill-jointed substance of the scarecrow; but merely a 
spectral illusion, and a cunning effect of light and shade so colored 
and contrived as to delude the eyes of most men. The miracles of 
witchcraft seem always to have had a very shallow subtlety; and, at 
least, if the above explanation do not hit the truth of the process, I 
can suggest no better. 

"Well puffed, my pretty lad!" still cried old Mother Rigby. 
"Come, another good stout whiff, and let it be with might and main. 
Puff for thy life, I tell thee! Puff out of the very bottom of thy 
heart; if any heart thou hast, or any bottom to it! Well done, 
again ! Thou didst suck in that mouthful as if for the pure love of it." 

And then the witch beckoned to the scarecrow, throwing so much 
magnetic potency into her gesture that it seemed as if it must inevi- 
tably be obeyed, like the mystic call of the loadstone when it sum- 
mons the iron. 

"Why lurkest thou in the corner, lazy one?" said she. "Step 
forth! Thou hast the world before thee!" Upon my word, if the 
legend were not one which I heard on my grandmother's knee, 
and which had established its place among things credible before 
my childish judgment could "analyze its probability, I question 
whether I should have the face to tell it now. 

In obedience to Mother Rigby's word, and extending its arm 
as if to reach her outstretched hand, the figure made a step forward — 
a kind of hitch and jerk, however, rather than a step — then tottered 
and almost lost its balance. What could the witch expect? It 
was nothing, after all, but a scarecrow stuck upon two sticks. But 
the strong-willed old beldam scowled, and beckoned, and flung 
the energy of her purpose so forcibly at this poor combination of rotten 
wood, and musty straw, and ragged garments, that it was com- 
pelled to show itself a man, in spite of the reality of things. So it 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 46 1 

stepped into the bar of sunshine. There it stood — poor devil of a 
contrivance that it was! — with only the thinnest vesture of human 
similitude about it, through which was evident the stiff, ricketty, 
incongruous, faded, tattered, good-for-nothing patchwork of its sub- 
stance, ready to sink in a heap upon the floor, as conscious of its 
own unworthiness to be erect. Shall I confess the truth? At its 
present point of vivification, the scarecrow reminds me of some of the 
lukewarm and abortive characters, composed of heterogeneous 
materials, used for the thousandth time, and never worth using, with 
which romance writers, (and myself, no doubt, among the rest,) have 
so over-peopled the world of fiction. 

But the fierce old hag began to get angry and show a glimpse 
of her diabolic nature, (like a snake's head, peeping with a hiss out of 
her bosom,) at this pusillanimous behavior of the thing which she had 
taken the trouble to put together. 

"Puff away, wretch!" cried she, wrathfully. "Puff, puff, puff, 
thou thing of straw and emptiness! thou rag or two! thou meal 
bag! thou pumpkin head! thou nothing! Where shall I find a name 
vile enough to call thee by ? Puff, I say, and suck in thy fantastic 
life along with the smoke; else I snatch the pipe from thy mouth and 
hurl thee where that red coal came from." 

Thus threatened, the unhappy scarecrow had nothing for it but 
to puff away for dear life. As need was, therefore, it applied itself 
lustily to the pipe and sent forth such abundant volleys of tobacco 
smoke that the small cottage kitchen became all vaporous. The one 
sunbeam struggled mistily through, and could but imperfectly define 
the image of the cracked and dusty window pane on the opposite wall. 
Mother Rigby, meanwhile, with one brown arm akimbo and the 
other stretched towards the figure, loomed grimly amid the obscurity 
with such port and expression as when she was wont to heave a 
ponderous nightmare on her victims and stand at the bedside to 
enjoy their agony. In fear and trembling did this poor scarecrow puff. 
But its efforts, it must be acknowledged, served an excellent purpose; 
for, with each successive whiff, the figure lost more and more of its 
dizzy and perplexing tenuity and seemed to take denser substance. 
Its very garments, moreover, partook of the magical change, and 
shone with the gloss of novelty and glistened with the skilfully 
embroidered gold that had long ago been rent away. And, half 



462 AMERICAN PROSE 

revealed among the smoke, a yellow visage bent its lustreless eyes 
on Mother Rigby. 

At last the old witch clinched her fist and shook it at the figure. 
Not that she was positively angry, but merely acting on the prin- 
ciple — perhaps untrue, or not the only truth, though as high a one as 
Mother Rigby could be expected to attain — that feeble and torpid 
natures, being incapable of better inspiration, must be stirred up by 
fear. But here was the crisis. Should she fail in what she now 
sought to effect, it was her ruthless purpose to scatter the miserable 
simulacre into its original elements. 

"Thou has a man's aspect," said she, sternly. "Have also the 
echo and mockery of a voice! I bid thee speak!" 

The scarecrow gasped, struggled, and at length emitted a 
murmur, which was so incorporated with its smoky breath that you 
could scarcely tell whether it were indeed a voice or only a whiff of 
tobacco. Some narrators of this legend hold the opinion that 
Mother Rigby's conjurations and the fierceness of her will had com- 
pelled a familiar spirit into the figure, and that the voice was his. 

"Mother," mumbled the poor stifled voice, "be not so awful 
with me! I would fain speak; but being without wits, what can I 
say?" 

"Thou canst speak, darling, canst thou?" cried Mother Rigby, 
relaxing her grim countenance into a smile. "And what shalt thou 
say, quotha! Say, indeed! Art thou of the brotherhood of the 
empty skull, and demandest of me what thou shalt say ? Thou shalt 
say a thousand things, and saying them a thousand times over, thou 
shalt still have said nothing! Be not afraid, I tell thee! When thou 
comest into the world, (whither I purpose sending thee forthwith,) 
thou shalt not lack the wherewithal to talk. Talk! Why, thou 
shalt babble like a mill stream, if thou wilt. Thou hast brains enough 
for that, I trow!" 

"At your service, mother," responded the figure. 

"And that was well said, my pretty one," answered Mother 
Rigby. "Then thou spakest like thyself, and meant nothing. 
Thou shalt have a hundred such set phrases, and five hundred to 
the boot of them. And now, darling, I have taken so much pains 
with thee, and thou art so beautiful, that, by my troth, I love thee 
better than any witch's puppet in the world; and I 've made them of 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 463 

all sorts — clay, wax, straw, sticks, night fog, morning mist, sea foam, 
and chimney smoke. But thou art the very best. So give heed to 
what I say." 

"Yes, kind mother," said the figure, "with all my heart!" 

"With all thy heart!" cried the old witch, setting her hands to 
her sides and laughing loudly. "Thou hast such a pretty way of 
speaking. With all thy heart ! And thou didst put thy hand to the 
left side of thy waistcoat as if thou really hadst one!" 

So now, in high good humor with this fantastic contrivance of 
hers, Mother Rigby told the scarecrow that it must go and play its 
part in the great world, where not one man in a hundred, she affirmed, 
was gifted with more real substance than itself. And, that he might 
hold up his head with the best of them, she endowed him, on the spot, 
with an unreckonable amount of wealth. It consisted partly of a gold 
mine in Eldorado, and of ten thousand shares in a broken bubble, 
and of half a million acres of vineyard at the North Pole, and of a 
castle in the air, and a chateau in Spain, together with all the rents 
and income therefrom accruing. She further made over to him the 
cargo of a certain ship, laden with salt of Cadiz, which she herself, 
by her necromantic arts, had caused to founder, ten years before, 
in the deepest part of mid ocean. If the salt were not dissolved, and 
could be brought to market, it would fetch a pretty penny among 
the fishermen. That he might not lack ready money, she gave him 
a copper farthing of Birmingham manufacture, being all the coin she 
had about her, and likewise a great deal of brass, which she applied 
to his forehead, thus making it yellower than ever. 

"With that brass alone," quoth Mother Rigby, "thou canst 
pay thy way all over the earth. Kiss me, pretty darling! I have 
done my best for thee." 

Furthermore, that the adventurer might lack no possible advan- 
tage towards a fair start in life, this excellent old dame gave him a 
token by which he was to introduce himself to a certain magistrate, 
member of the council, merchant, and elder of the church, (the 
four capacities constituting but one man,) who stood at the head 
of society in the neighboring metropolis. The token was neither 
more nor less than a single word, which Mother Rigby whispered 
to the scarecrow, and which the scarecrow was to whisper to the 
merchant. 



464 AMERICAN PROSE 



" Gouty as the old fellow is, he '11 run thy errands for thee, when 
once thou hast given him that word in his ear," said the old witch. 
"Mother Rigby knows the worshipful Justice Gookin, and the 
worshipful Justice knows Mother Rigby!" 

Here the witch thrust her wrinkled face close to the puppet's, 
chuckling irrepressibly, and fidgeting all through her system, with 
delight at the idea which she meant to communicate. 

"The worshipful Master Gookin," whispered she, "hath a comely 
maiden to his daughter. And hark ye, my pet! Thou hast a fair 
outside, and a pretty wit enough of thine own. Yea, a pretty wit 
enough! Thou wilt think better of it when thou hast seen more of 
other people's wits. Now, with thy outside and thy inside, thou art 
the very man to win a young girl's heart. Never doubt it! I teU 
thee it shall be so. Put but a bold face on the matter, sigh, smile, 
nourish thy hat, thrust forth thy leg like a dancing master, put thy 
right hand to the left side of thy waistcoat, and pretty Polly Gookin 
is thine own!" 

All this while the new creature had been sucking in and exhaling 
the vapory fragrance of his pipe, and seemed now to continue this 
occupation as much for the enjoyment it afforded as because it was 
an essential condition of his existence. It was wonderful to see 
how exceedingly like a human being it behaved. Its eyes, (for it 
appeared to possess a pair,) were bent on Mother Rigby, and at 
suitable junctures it nodded or shook its head. Neither did it lack 
words proper for the occasion: "Really! Indeed! Pray tell me! 
Is it possible! Upon my word! By no means! O! Ah! Hem!" 
and other such weighty utterances as imply attention, inquiry, 
acquiescence, or dissent on the part of the auditor. Even had you 
stood by and seen the scarecrow made, you could scarcely have 
resisted the conviction that it perfectly understood the cunning 
counsels which the old witch poured into its counterfeit of an ear. 
The more earnestly it applied its lips to the pipe, the more distinctly 
was its human likeness stamped among visible realities, the more 
sagacious grew its expression, the more lifelike its gestures and 
movements, and the more intelligibly audible its voice. Its gar- 
ments, too, glistened so much the brighter with an illusory 
magnificence. The very pipe, in which burned the spell of all this 
wonderwork, ceased to appear as a smoke-blackened earthen 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 465 

Btump, and became a meerschaum, with painted bowl and amber 
mouthpiece. 

It might be apprehended, however, that as the life of the illusion 
seemed identical with the vapor of the pipe, it would terminate 
simultaneously with the reduction of the tobacco to ashes. But 
the beldam foresaw the difficulty. 

"Hold thou the pipe, my precious one," said she, "while I fill it 
for thee again." 

It was sorrowful to behold how the fine gentleman began to fade 
back into a scarecrow while Mother Rigby shook the ashes out of the 
pipe and proceeded to replenish it from her tobacco box. 

"Dickon," cried she, in her high, sharp tone, "another coal for 
this pipe!" 

No sooner said than the intensely red speck of fire was glowing 
within the pipe-bowl; and the scarecrow, without waiting for the 
witch's bidding, applied the tube to his lips and drew in a few short, 
convulsive whiffs, which soon, however, became regular and equable. 

"Now, mine own heart's darling," quoth Mother Rigby, "what- 
ever may happen to thee, thou must stick to thy pipe. Thy life is in 
it; and that, at least, thou knowest well, if thou knowest nought 
besides. Stick to thy pipe, I say! Smoke, puff, blow thy cloud; 
and tell the people, if any question be made, that it is for thy health, 
and that so the physician orders thee to do. And, sweet one, when 
thou shalt find thy pipe getting low, go apart into some corner, and, 
(first filling thyself with smoke,) cry sharply, 'Dickon, a fresh pipe 
of tobacco!' and, 'Dickon, another coal for my pipe!' and have it into 
thy pretty mouth as speedily as may be. Else, instead of a gallant 
gentleman in a gold-laced coat, thou wilt be but a jumble of sticks 
and tattered clothes, and a bag of straw, and a withered pumpkin! 
Now depart, my treasure, and good luck go with thee!" 

"Never fear, mother!" said the figure, in a stout voice, and send- 
ing forth a courageous whiff of smoke. "I will thrive, if an honest 
man and a gentleman may!" 

"O, thou wilt be the death of me!" cried the old witch, con- 
vulsed with laughter. "That was well said. If an honest man and 
a gentleman may! Thou playest thy part to perfection. Get along 
with thee for a smart fellow; and I will wager on thy head, as a man 
of pith and substance, with a brain, and what they call a heart, and 



466 AMERICAN PROSE 



all else that a man should have, against any other thing on two legs. 
I hold myself a better witch than yesterday, for thy sake. Did 
not I make thee ? And I defy any witch in New England to make 
such another! Here; take my staff along with thee!" 

The staff, though it was but a plain oaken stick, immediately 
took the aspect of a gold-headed cane. 

"That gold head has as much sense in it as thine own," said 
Mother Rigby, "and it will guide thee straight to worshipful Master 
Gookin's door. Get thee gone, my pretty pet, my darling, my 
precious one, my treasure; and if any ask thy name, it is Feathertop. 
For thou hast a feather in thy hat, and I have thrust a handful of 
feathers into the hollow of thy head, and thy wig too is of the fashion 
they call Feathertop, — so be Feathertop thy name!" 

And, issuing from the cottage, Feathertop strode manfully 
towards town. Mother Rigby stood at the threshold, well pleased 
to see how the sunbeams glistened on him, as if all his magnificence 
were real, and how diligently and lovingly he smoked his pipe, and 
how handsomely he walked, in spite of a little stiffness of his legs. 
She watched him until out of sight, and threw a witch benediction 
after her darling, when a turn of the road snatched him from her view. 

Betimes in the forenoon, when the principal street of the neigh- 
boring town was just at its acme of life and bustle, a stranger of very 
distinguished figure was seen on the sidewalk. His port as well as 
his garments betokened nothing short of nobility. He wore a richly- 
embroidered plum-colored coat, a waistcoat of costly velvet magnifi- 
cently adorned with golden foliage, a pair of splendid scarlet breeches, 
and the finest and glossiest of white silk stockings. His head was cov- 
ered with a peruke, so daintily powdered and adjusted that it would 
have been sacrilege to disorder it with a hat; which, therefore, (and it 
was a gold-laced hat, set off with a snowy feather,) he carried beneath 
his arm. On the breast of his coat glistened a star. He managed his 
gold-headed cane with an airy grace peculiar to the fine gentlemen of 
the period; and, to give the highest possible finish to his equipment, 
he had lace ruffles at his wrist, of a most ethereal delicacy, sufficiently 
avouching how idle and aristocratic must be the hands which they half 
concealed. 

It was a remarkable point in the accoutrement of this brilliant 
personage, that he held in his left hand a fantastic kind of a pipe, with 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 467 

an exquisitely painted bowl and an amber mouthpiece. This he 
applied to his lips as often as every five or six paces, and inhaled a 
deep whiff of smoke, which, after being retained a moment in his 
lungs, might be seen to eddy gracefully from his mouth and 
nostrils. 

As may well be supposed, the street was all astir to find out the 
stranger's name. • 

"It is some great nobleman, beyond question," said one of the 
townspeople. "Do you see the star at his breast ?" 

"Nay; it is too bright to be seen," said another. "Yes; he must 
needs be a nobleman, as you say. But by what conveyance, think 
you, can his lordship have voyaged or travelled hither ? There has 
been no vessel from the old country for a month past ; and if he have 
arrived overland from the southward, pray where are his attendants 
and equipage?" 

"He needs no equipage to set off his rank," remarked a third. 
"If he came among us in rags, nobility would shine through a hole in 
his elbow. I never saw such dignity of aspect. He has the old 
Norman blood in his veins, I warrant him." 

"I rather take him to be a Dutchman, or one of your high 
Germans," said another citizen. "The men of those countries have 
always the pipe at their mouths." 

"And so has a Turk," answered his companion. "But, in my 
judgment, this stranger hath been bred at the French court, and hath 
there learned politeness and grace of manner, which none understand 
so well as the nobility of France. That gait, now! A vulgar spec- 
tator might deem it stiff — he might call it a hitch and jerk — but, 
to my eye, it hath an unspeakable majesty, and must have been 
acquired by constant observation of the deportment of the Grand 
Monarque. The stranger's character and office are evident enough. 
He is a French ambassador, come to treat with our rulers about the 
cession of Canada." 

"More probably a Spaniard," said another, "and hence his 
yellow complexion; or, most likely, he is from the Havana, or from 
some port on the Spanish main, and comes to make investigation 
about the piracies which our governor is thought to connive at. 
Those settlers in Peru and Mexico have skins as yellow as the gold 
which they dig out of their mines." 



468 AMERICAN PROSE 



"Yellow or not," cried a lady, "he is a beautiful man! — so tall, 
so slender! such a fine, noble face, with so well-shaped a nose, and 
all that delicacy of expression about the mouth! And, bless me, how 
bright his star is! It positively shoots out flames!" 

"So do your eyes, fair lady," said the stranger, with a bow and 
a flourish of his pipe; for he was just passing at the instant. "Upon 
my honor, they have quite dazzled me." 

"Was ever so original and exquisite a compliment?" murmured 
the lady, in an ecstasy of delight. 

Amid the general admiration excited by the stranger's appear- 
ance, there were only two dissenting voices. One was that of an 
impertinent cur, which, after snuffing at the heels of the glistening 
figure, put its tail between its legs and skulked into its master's back 
yard, vociferating an execrable howl. The other dissentient was a 
young child, who squalled at the fullest stretch of his lungs, and 
babbled some unintelligible nonsense about a pumpkin. 

Feathertop meanwhile pursued his way along the street. Except 
for the few complimentary words to the lady, and now and then a 
slight inclination of the head in requital of the profound reverences 
of the bystanders, he seemed wholly absorbed in his pipe. There 
needed no other proof of his rank and consequence than the perfect 
equanimity with which he comported himself, while the curiosity and 
admiration of the town swelled almost into clamor around him. With 
a crowd gathering behind his footsteps, he finally reached the mansion 
house of the worshipful Justice Gookin, entered the gate, ascended 
the steps of the front door, and knocked. In the interim, before his 
summons was answered, the stranger was observed to shake the 
ashes out of his pipe. 

"What did he say in that sharp voice?" inquired one of the 
spectators. 

"Nay, I know not," answered his friend. "But the sun dazzles 
my eyes strangely. How dim and faded his lordship looks all of a 
sudden! Bless my wits, what is the matter with me?" 

"The wonder is," said the other, "that his pipe, wliich was 
out only an instant ago, should be all alight again, and with the reddest 
coal I ever saw. There is something mysterious about this stranger. 
What a whiff of smoke was that ? Dim and faded did you call him ? 
Why, as he turns about the star on his breast is all ablaze." 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 469 

"It is, indeed," said his companion; "and it will go near to 
dazzle pretty Polly Gookin, whom I see peeping at it out of the 
chamber window." 

The door being now opened, Feathertop turned to the crowd, 
made a stately bend of his body like a great man acknowledging the 
reverence of the meaner sort, and vanished into the house. There 
was a mysterious kind of a smile, if it might not better be called a grin 
or grimace, upon his visage; but, of all the throng that beheld him, 
not an individual appears to have possessed insight enough to detect 
the illusive character of the stranger except a little child and a cur dog. 

Our legend here loses somewhat of its continuity, and, passing 
over the preliminary explanation between Feathertop and the 
merchant, goes in quest of the pretty Polly Gookin. She was a 
damsel of a soft, round figure, with light hair and blue eyes, and a 
fair, rosy face, which seemed neither very shrewd nor very simple. 
This young lady had caught a glimpse of the glistening stranger 
while standing at the threshold, and had forthwith put on a laced 
cap, a string of beads, her finest kerchief, and her stiffest damask 
petticoat in preparation for the interview. Hurrying from her 
chamber to the parlor, she had ever since been viewing herself in the 
large looking glass and practising pretty airs — now a smile, now a 
ceremonious dignity of aspect, and now a softer smile than the former, 
kissing her hand likewise, tossing her head, and managing her fan; 
while within the mirror an unsubstantial little maid repeated every 
gesture and did all the foolish things that Polly did, but without 
making her ashamed of them. In short, it was the fault of pretty 
Polly's ability rather than her will if she failed to be as complete an 
artifice as the illustrious Feathertop himself; and, when she thus 
tampered with her own simplicity, the witch's phantom might well 
hope to win her. 

No sooner did Polly hear her father's gouty footsteps approaching 
the parlor door, accompanied with the stiff clatter of Feathertop's 
high-heeled shoes, than she seated herself bolt upright and innocently 
began warbling a song. 

"Polly! daughter Polly!" cried the old merchant. "Come 
hither, child." 

Master Gookin's aspect, as he opened the door, was doubtful 
and troubled. 



47o AMERICAN PROSE 



"This gentleman," continued he, presenting the stranger, "is 
the Chevalier Feathertop, — nay, I beg his pardon, my Lord Feather- 
top, who has brought me a token of remembrance from an ancient 
friend of mine. Pay your duty to his lordship, child, and honor him 
as his quality deserves." 

After these few words of introduction the worshipful magistrate 
immediately quitted the room. But, even in that brief moment, 
had the fair Polly glanced aside at her father instead of devoting 
herself wholly to the brilliant guest, she might have taken warning of 
some mischief nigh at hand. The old man was nervous, fidgety, and 
very pale. Purposing a smile of courtesy, he had deformed his 
face with a sort of galvanic grin, which, when Feathertop's back was 
turned, he exchanged for a scowl, at the same time shaking his fist 
and stamping his gouty foot — -an incivility which brought its retribu- 
tion along with it. The truth appears to have been, that Mother 
Rigby's word of introduction, whatever it might be, had operated 
far more on the rich merchant's fears than on his good will. More- 
over, being a man of wonderfully acute observation, he had noticed 
that the painted figures on the bowl of Feathertop's pipe we_e in 
motion. Looking more closely, he became convinced that these 
figures were a party of little demons, each duly provided with horns 
and a tail, and dancing hand in hand, with gestures of diabolical merri- 
ment, round the circumference of the pipe bowl. As if to confirm 
his suspicions, while Master Gookin ushered his guest along a dusky 
passage from his private room to the parlor, the star on Feathertop's 
breast had scintillated actual flames, and threw a flickering gleam 
upon the wall, the ceiling, and the floor. 

With such sinister prognostics manifesting themselves on all 
hands, it is not to be marvelled at that the merchant should have 
felt that he was committing his daughter to a very questionable 
acquaintance. He cursed, in his secret soul, the insinuating ele- 
gance of Feathertop's manners, as this brilliant personage bowed, 
smiled, put his hand on his heart, inhaled a long whiff from his pipe, 
and enriched the atmosphere with the smoky vapor of a fragrant 
and visible sigh. Gladly would poor Master Gookin have thrust 
his dangerous guest into the street; but there was a constraint and 
terror within him. This respectable old gentleman, we fear, at 
an earlier period of life, had given some pledge or other to the evil 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 471 

principle, and perhaps was now to redeem it by the sacrifice of his 
daughter. 

It so happened that the parlor door was partly of glass, shaded 
by a silken curtain, the folds of which hung a little awry. So strong 
was the merchant's interest in witnessing what was to ensue between 
the fair Polly and the gallant Feathertop that after quitting the room 
he could by no means refrain from peeping through the crevice of 
the curtain. 

But there was nothing very miraculous to be seen; nothing — 
except the trifles previously noticed — to confirm the idea of a super- 
natural peril environing the pretty Polly. The stranger, it is true, 
was evidently a thorough and practised man of the world, systematic 
and self-possessed, and therefore the sort of a person to whom a parent 
ought not to confide a simple, young girl without due watchfulness 
for the result. The worthy magistrate, who had been conversant 
with all degrees and qualities of mankind, could not but perceive 
every motion and gesture of the distinguished Feathertop came in 
its proper place; nothing had been left rude or native in him; a 
well-digested conventionalism had incorporated itself thoroughly 
with his substance and transformed him into a work of art. Perhaps 
it was this peculiarity that invested him with a species of ghastliness 
and awe. It is the effect of any thing completely and consummately 
artificial, in human shape, that the person impresses us as an unreality 
and as having hardly pith enough to cast a shadow upon the floor. 
As regarded Feathertop, all this resulted in a wild, extravagant, 
and fantastical impression, as if his life and being were akin to the 
smoke that curled upward from his pipe. 

But pretty Polly Gookin felt not thus. , The pair were now 
promenading the room; Feathertop with his dainty stride and no 
less dainty grimace; the girl with a native maidenly grace, just 
touched, not spoiled, by a slightly affected manner, which seemed 
caught from the perfect artifice of her companion. The longer 
the interview continued, the more charmed was pretty Polly, until, 
within the first quarter of an hour, (as the old magistrate noted by his 
watch,) she was evidently beginning to be in love. Nor need it have 
been witchcraft that subdued her in such a hurry; the poor child's 
heart, it may be, was so very fervent that it melted her with its own 
warmth as reflected from the hollow semblance of a lover. No matter 



472 • AMERICAN PROSE 



what Feathertop said, his words found depth and reverberation in her 
ear; no matter what he did, his action was heroic to her eye. And 
by this time it is to be supposed there was a blush on Polly's cheek, 
a tender smile about her mouth, and a liquid softness in her glance; 
while the star kept coruscating on Feathertop's breast, and the little 
demons careered with more frantic merriment than ever about the 
circumference of his pipe bowl. O pretty Polly Gookin, why should 
these imps rejoice so madly that a silly maiden's heart was about 
to be given to a shadow! Is it so unusual a misfortune, so rare a 
triumph ? 

By and by Feathertop paused, and, throwing himself into an 
imposing attitude, seemed to summon the fair girl to survey his 
figure and resist him longer if she could. His star, his embroidery, 
his buckles glowed at that instant with unutterable splendor; the 
picturesque hues of his attire took a richer depth of coloring; there 
was a gleam and polish over his whole presence betokening the perfect 
witchery of well-ordered manners. The maiden raised her eyes and 
suffered them to linger upon her companion with a bashful and admir- 
ing gaze. Then, as if desirous of judging what value her own simple 
comeliness might have side by side with so much brilliancy, she cast 
a glance towards the full-length looking glass in front of which they 
happened to be standing. It was one of the truest plates in the 
world, and incapable of flattery. No sooner did the images therein 
reflected meet Polly's eye than she shrieked, shrank from the stranger's 
side, gazed at him for a moment in the wildest dismay, and sank 
insensible upon the floor. Feathertop likewise had looked towards the 
mirror, and there beheld, not the glittering mockery of his outside 
show, but a picture of the sordid patchwork of his real composition 
stripped of all witchcraft. 

The wretched simulacrum! We almost pity him. He threw 
up his arms with an expression of despair that went further than any 
of his previous manifestations towards vindicating his claims to be 
reckoned human; for, perchance the only time since this so often 
empty and deceptive life of mortals began its course, an illusion had 
seen and fully recognized itself. 

Mother Rigby was seated by her kitchen hearth in the twilight 
of this eventful day, and had just shaken the ashes out of a new pipe, 
when she heard a hurried tramp along the road. Yet it did not seem 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 473 

so much the tramp of human footsteps as the clatter of sticks or the 
rattling of dry bones. 

"Ha!" thought the old witch, "what step is that? Whose 
skeleton is out of its grave now, I wonder ? " 

A figure burst headlong into the cottage door. It was Feather- 
top! His pipe was still alight; the star still flamed upon his breast; 
the embroidery still glowed upon his garments; nor had he lost, in 
any degree or manner that could be estimated, the aspect that 
assimilated him with our mortal brotherhood. But yet, in some 
indescribable way, (as is the case with all that has deluded us when 
once found out,) the poor reality was felt beneath the cunning artifice. 

"What has gone wrong?" demanded the witch. "Did yonder 
sniffling hypocrite thrust my darling from his door ? The villain ! 
I '11 set twenty fiends to torment him till he offer thee his daughter 
on his bended knees!" 

"No, mother," said Feathertop despondingly; "it was not that." 

"Did the girl scorn my precious one?" asked Mother Rigby, 
her fierce eyes glowing like two coals of Tophet. "I '11 cover her 
face with pimples! Her nose shall be as red as the coal in thy pipe! 
Her front teeth shall drop out! In a week hence she shall not be 
worth thy having!" 

"Let her alone, mother," answered poor Feathertop; "the girl 
was half won; and methinks a kiss from her sweet lips might have 
made me altogether human. But," he added, after a brief pause and 
then a howl of self-contempt, "I 've seen myself, mother! I 've seen 
myself for the wretched, ragged, empty thing I am! I '11 exist no 
longer!" 

Snatching the pipe from his mouth, he flung it with all his might 
against the chimney, and at the same instant sank upon the floor, a 
medley of straw and tattered garments, with some sticks protruding 
from the heap, and a shrivelled pumpkin in the midst. The eyeholes 
were now lustreless; but the rudely-carved gap, that just before had 
been a mouth, still seemed to twist itself into a despairing grin, and 
was so far human. 

"Poor fellow!" quoth Mother Rigby, with a rueful glance at the 
relics of her ill-fated contrivance. "My poor, dear, pretty Feather- 
top! There are thousands upon thousands of coxcombs and charla- 
tans in the world, made up of just such a jumble of wornout, forgotten, 



474 AMERICAN PROSE 



and good-for-nothing trash as he was! Yet they live in fair repute, 
and never see themselves for what they are. And why should my 
poor puppet be the only one to know himself and perish for it ? " 

While thus muttering, the witch had filled a fresh pipe of tobacco, 
and held the stem between her fingers, as doubtful whether to thrust 
it into her own mouth or Feathertop's. 

"Poor Feathertop!" she continued. "I could easily give him 
another chance and send him forth again to-morrow. But no; his 
feelings are too tender, his sensibilities too deep. He seems to have 
too much heart to bustle for his own advantage in such an empty 
and heartless world. Well! well! I '11 make a scarecrow of him 
after all. 'T is an innocent and a useful vocation, and will suit my 
darling well; and, if each of his human brethren had as fit a one, 
't would be the better for mankind; and as for this pipe of tobacco, 
I need it more than he." 

So saying, Mother Rigby put the stem between her lips. "Dick- 
on! "cried she, in her high, sharp tone, "another coal for my pipe! " 



HENRY D. THOREAU 

FROM 

WALDEN 

WHERE I LIVED, AND WHAT I LIVED FOR 

At a certain season of our life we are accustomed to consider every 
spot as the possible site of a house. I have thus surveyed the country 
on every side within a dozen miles of where I live. In imagination 
I have bought all the farms in succession, for all were to be bought, 
and I knew their price. I walked over each farmer's premises, tasted 
his wild apples, discoursed on husbandry with him, took his farm at 
his price, at any price, mortgaging it to him in my mind; even put a 
higher price on it, — took every thing but a deed of it, — took his word 
for his deed, for I dearly love to talk, — cultivated it, and him too to 
some extent, I trust, and withdrew when I had enjoyed it long enough, 
leaving him to carry it on. This experience entitled me to be regarded 
as a sort of real-estate broker by my friends. Wherever I sat, there 
I might live and the landscape radiated from me accordingly. What 



HENRY D. THOREAU 475 

is a house but a sedes, a seat ? — better if a country seat. I discovered 
many a site for a house not likely to be soon improved, which some 
might have thought too far from the village, but to my eyes the village 
was too far from it. Well, there I might live, I said; and there I did 
live, for an hour, a summer and a winter life; saw how I could let the 
years run off, buffet the winter through, and see the spring come in. 
The future inhabitants of this region, wherever they may place their 
houses, may be sure that they have been anticipated. An afternoon 
sufficed to lay out the land into orchard, woodlot, and pasture,; and 
to decide what fine oaks or pines should be left to stand before the 
door, and whence each blasted tree could be seen to the best advan- 
tage; and then I let it He, fallow perchance, for a man is rich in pro- 
portion to the number of things which he can afford to let alone. 

My imagination carried me so far that I even had the refusal of 
several farms, — the refusal was all I wanted, — but I never got my 
fingers burned by actual possession. The nearest that I came to 
actual possession was when I bought the Hollowell place, and had 
begun to sort my seeds, and collected materials with which to make 
a wheelbarrow to carry it on or off with; but before the owner gave 
me a deed of it, his wife — every man has such a wife — changed her 
mind and wished to keep it, and he offered me ten dollars to release 
him. Now, to speak the truth, I had but ten cents in the world, and 
it surpassed my arithmetic to tell, if I was that man who had ten 
cents, or who had a farm, or ten dollars, or all together. However, 
I let him keep the ten dollars and the farm too, for I had carried it 
far enough; or rather, to be generous, I sold him the farm for just 
what I gave for it, and, as he was not a rich man, made him a present 
of ten dollars, and still had my ten cents, and seeds, and materials 
for a wheelbarrow left. I found thus that I had been a rich man 
without any damage to my property. But I retained the landscape, 
and I have since annually carried off what it yielded without a wheel- 
barrow. With respect to landscapes, — 

" I am monarch of all I survey, 
My right there is none to- dispute." 

I have frequently seen a poet withdraw, having enjoyed the most 
valuable part of a farm, while the crusty farmer supposed that he 
had got a few wild apples only. Why, the owner does not know it 



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for many years when a poet has put his farm in rhyme, the most 
admirable kind of invisible fence, has fairly impounded it, milked it, 
skimmed it, and got all the cream, and left the farmer only the 
skimmed milk. 

The real attractions of the Hollowell farm, to me, were: its com- 
plete retirement, being about two miles from the village, half a mile 
from the nearest neighbor, and separated from the highway by a 
broad field; its bounding on the river, which the owner said pro- 
tected it by its fogs from frosts in the spring, though that was nothing 
to me; the gray color and ruinous state of the house and barn, and 
the dilapidated fences, which put such an interval between me and 
the last occupant; the hollow and lichen-covered apple trees, gnawed 
by rabbits, showing what kind of neighbors I should have; but above 
all, the recollection I had of it from my earliest voyages up the river, 
when the house was concealed behind a dense grove of red maples, 
through which I heard the house-dog bark. I was in haste to buy it, 
before the proprietor finished getting out some rocks, cutting down 
the hollow apple trees, and grubbing up some young birches which 
had sprung up in the pasture, or, in short, had made any more of his 
improvements. To enjoy these advantages I was ready to carry it 
on; like Atlas, to take the world on my shoulders,— I never heard 
what compensation he received for that, — and do all those things 
which had no other motive or excuse but that I might pay for it and 
be unmolested in my possession of it; for I knew all the while that it 
would yield the most abundant crop of the kind I wanted if I could 
only afford to let it alone. But it turned out as I have said. 

All that I could say, then, with respect to farming on a large 
scale, (I have always cultivated a garden,) was, that I had had my 
seeds ready. Many think that seeds improve with age. I have no 
doubt that time discriminates between the good and the bad; and 
when at last I shall plant, I shall be less likely to be disappointed. 
But I would say to my fellows, once for all, As long as possible live 
free and uncommitted. It makes but little difference whether you 
are committed to a farm or the county jail. 

Old Cato, whose "De Re Rustica" is my "cultivator," says, 
and the only translation I have seen makes sheer nonsense of the 
passage, "When you think of getting a farm, turn it thus in your 
mind, not to buy greedily; nor spare your pains to look at it, and do 



HENRY D. THOREAU 477 

not think it enough to go round it once. The oftener you go there 
the more it will please you, if it is good." I think I shall not buy 
greedily, but go round and round it as long as I live, and be buried 
in it first, that it may please me the more at last. 

The present was my next experiment of this kind, which I 
purpose to describe more at length; for convenience, putting 
the experience of two years into one. As I have said, I do not 
propose to write an ode to dejection, but to brag as lustily as chanti- 
cleer in the morning, standing on his roost, if only to wake my 
neighbors up. 

When first I took up my abode in the woods, that is, began to 
spend my nights as well as days there, which, by accident, was on 
Independence day, or the fourth of July, 1845, my house was not 
finished for winter, but was merely a defence against the rain, without 
plastering or chimney, the walls being of rough weather-stained 
boards, with wide chinks, which made it cool at night. The upright 
white hewn studs and freshly planed door and window casings gave 
it a clean and airy look, especially in the morning, when its timbers 
were saturated with dew, so that I fancied that by noon some sweet 
gum would exude from them. To my imagination it retained 
throughout the day more or less of this auroral character, reminding 
me of a certain house on a mountain which I had visited the year 
before. This was an airy and unplastered cabin, fit to entertain a 
travelling god, and where a goddess might trail her garments. The 
winds which passed over my dwelling were such as sweep over the 
ridges of mountains, bearing the broken strains, or celestial parts 
only, of terrestrial music. The morning wind forever blows, the 
poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it. 
Olympus is but the outside of the earth every where. 

The only house I had been the owner of before, if I except a boat, 
was a tent, which I used occasionally when making excursions in the 
summer, and this is still rolled up in my garret; but the boat, after 
passing from hand to hand, has gone down the stream of time. With 
this more substantial shelter about me, I had made some progress 
toward settling in the world. This frame, so slightly clad, was a 
sort of crystallization around me, and reacted on the builder. It was 
suggestive somewhat as a picture in outlines. I did not need to go 
out doors to take the air, for the atmosphere within had lost none of 



478 AMERICAN PROSE 



its freshness. It was not so much within doors as behind a door 
where I sat, even in the rainiest weather. The Harivansa says, "An 
abode without birds is like a meat without seasoning." Such was 
not my abode, for I found myself suddenly neighbor to the birds; 
not by having imprisoned one, but having caged myself near them. 
I was not only nearer to some of those which commonly frequent the 
garden and the orchard, but to those wilder and more thrilling song- 
sters of the forest which never, or rarely, serenade a villager, — the 
wood-thrush, the veery, the scarlet tanager, the field-sparrow, the 
whippoorwill, and many others. 

I was seated by the shore of a small pond, about a mile and a 
half south of the village of Concord and somewhat higher than it, in 
the midst of an extensive wood between that town and Lincoln, and 
about two miles south of that our only field known to fame, Concord 
Battle Ground; but I was so low in the woods that the opposite shore, 
half a mile off, like the rest, covered with wood, was my most 
distant horizon. For the first week, whenever I looked out on the 
pond it impressed me like a tarn high up on the side of a mountain, 
its bottom far above the surface of other lakes, and, as the sun 
arose, I saw it throwing off its nightly clothing of mist, and 
here and there, by degrees, its soft ripples or its smooth reflecting 
surface was revealed, while the mists, like ghosts, were stealthily 
withdrawing in every direction into the woods, as at the break- 
ing up of some nocturnal conventicle. The very dew seemed to 
hang upon the trees later into the day than usual, as on the sides of 
mountains. 

This small lake was of most value as a neighbor in the intervals 
of a gentle rain storm in August, when, both air and water being per- 
fectly still, but the sky overcast, mid-afternoon had all the serenity 
of evening, and the wood-thrush sang around, and was heard from 
shore to shore. A lake like this is never smoother than at such a 
time; and the clear portion of the air above it being shallow and 
darkened by clouds, the water, full of light and reflections, becomes 
a lower heaven itself so much the more important. From a hill top 
near by, where the wood had recently been cut off, there was a pleas- 
ing vista southward across the pond, through a wide indentation in 
the hills which form the shore there, where their opposite sides sloping 
toward each other suggested a stream flowing out in that direction 



HENRY D. THOREAU 479 

through a wooded valley, but stream there was none. That way I 
looked between and over the near green hills to some distant and 
higher ones in the horizon, tinged with blue. Indeed, by standing on 
tiptoe I could catch a glimpse of some of the peaks of the still bluer 
and more distant mountain ranges in the north-west, those true-blue 
coins from heaven's own mint, and also of some portion of the village. 
But in other directions, even from this point, I could not see over 
or beyond the woods which surrounded me. It is well to have some 
water in your neighborhood, to give buoyancy to and float the earth. 
One value even of the smallest well is, that when you look into it 
you see that earth is not continent but insular. This is as important 
as that it keeps butter cool. When I looked across the pond from 
this peak toward the Sudbury meadows, which in time of flood I 
distinguished elevated perhaps by a mirage in their seething valley, 
like a coin in a basin, all the earth beyond the pond appeared like a 
thin crust insulated and floated even by this small sheet of inter- 
vening water, and I was reminded that this on which I dwelt was 
but dry land. 

Though the view from my door was still more contracted, I did 
not feel crowded or confined in the least. There was pasture enough 
for my imagination. The low shrub-oak plateau to which the oppo- 
site shore arose, stretched away toward the prairies of the West and 
the steppes of Tartary, affording ample room for all the roving 
families of men. "There are none happy in the world but beings who 
enjoy freely a vast horizon," — said Damodara, when his herds re- 
quired new and larger pastures. 

Both place and time were changed, and I dwelt nearer to those 
parts of the universe and to those eras in history which had most 
attracted me. Where I lived was as far off as many a region viewed 
nightly by astronomers. We are wont to imagine rare and delectable 
places in some remote and more celestial corner of the system, behind 
the constellation of Cassiopeia's Chair, far from noise and disturbance. 
I discovered that my house actually had its site in such a withdrawn, 
but forever new and unprofaned, part of the universe. If it were 
worth the while to settle in those parts near to the Pleiades or the 
Hyades, to Aldebaran or Altair, then I was really there, or at an 
equal remoteness from the life which I had left behind, dwindled and 
twinkling with as fine a ray to my nearest neighbor, and to be seen 



480 AMERICAN PROSE 



only in moonless nights by him. Such was that part of creation 
where I had squatted: — 

"There was a shepherd that did live, 
And held his thoughts as high 
As were the mounts whereon his flocks 
Did hourly feed him by." 

What should we think of the shepherd's life if his flocks always wan- 
dered to higher pastures than his thoughts ? 

Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal 
simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself. I have 
been as sincere a worshipper of Aurora as the Greeks. I got up early 
and bathed in the pond; that was a religious exercise, and one of the 
best things which I did. They say that characters were engraven on 
the bathing tub of king Tching-thang to this effect: "Renew thyself 
completely each day; do it again, and again, and forever again." 
I can understand that. Morning brings back the heroic ages. I was 
as much affected by the faint hum of a mosquito making its invisible 
and unimaginable tour through my apartment at earliest dawn, when 
I was sitting with door and windows open, as I could be by any trum- 
pet that ever sang of fame. It was Homer's requiem; itself an Iliad 
and Odyssey in the air, singing its own wrath and wanderings. There 
was something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till for- 
bidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The morn- 
ing, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening 
hour. Then there is least somnolence in us; and for an hour, at least, 
some part of us awakes which slumbers all the rest of the day and 
night. Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, 
to which we are not awakened by our Genius, but by the mechanical 
nudgings of some servitor, are not awakened by our own newly- 
acquired force and aspirations from within, accompanied by the 
undulations of celestial music, instead of factory bells, and a fragrance 
filling the air — to a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the 
darkness bear its fruit, and prove itself to be good, no less than the 
light. That man who does not believe that each day contains an 
earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he has yet profaned, has 
despaired of life, and is pursuing a descending and darkening way. 
After a partial cessation of his sensuous life, the soul of man, or its 



HENRY D. THOREAU 



organs rather, are reinvigorated each day, and his Genius tries again 
what noble life it can make. All memorable events, I should say, 
transpire in morning time and in a morning atmosphere. The Vedas 
say, "All intelligences awake with the morning." Poetry and art, 
and the fairest and most memorable of the actions of men, date from 
such an hour. All poets and heroes, like Memnon, are the children 
of Aurora, and emit their music at sunrise. To him whose elastic 
and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual 
morning. It matters not what the clocks say or the attitudes and 
labors of men. Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in 
me. Moral reform is the effort to throw off sleep. Why is it that 
men give so poor an account of their day if they have not been 
slumbering ? They are not such poor calculators. If they had not 
been overcome with drowsiness they would have performed some- 
thing. The millions are awake enough for physical labor; but only 
one in a million is awake enough for effective intellectual exertion, 
only one in a hundred millions to a poetic or divine life. To be awake 
is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. 
How could I have looked him in the face ? 

We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by 
mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which 
does not forsake us in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encour- 
aging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life 
by a conscious endeavor. It is something to be able to paint a par- 
ticular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects 
beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very 
atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we 
can do. To effect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts. 
Every man is tasked to make his life, even in its details, worthy of 
the contemplation of his most elevated and critical hour. If we 
refused, or rather used up, such paltry information as we get, the 
oracles would distinctly inform us how this might be done. 

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front 
only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it 
had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not 
lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor 
did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I 
wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so 



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sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to 
cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and 
reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then 
to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness 
to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be 
able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, 
it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it 
is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it 
is the chief end of man here to "glorify God and enjoy him forever." 
Still we live meanly, like ants; though the fable tells us that we 
were long ago changed into men; like pygmies we fight with cranes; 
it is error upon error, and clout upon clout, and our best virtue has 
for its occasion a superfluous and evitable wretchedness. Our life is 
frittered away by detail. An honest man has hardly need to count 
more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten 
toes, and lump the rest. Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity! I say, 
let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand; 
instead of a million count half a dozen, and keep your accounts on your 
thumb nail. In the midst of this chopping sea of civilized life, such 
are the clouds and storms and quicksands and thousand-and-one 
items to be allowed for, that a man has to live, if he would not 
founder and go to the bottom and not make his port at all, by dead 
reckoning, and he must be a great calculator indeed who succeeds. 
Simplify, simplify. Instead of three meals a day, if it be necessary 
eat but one; instead of a hundred dishes, five; and reduce other 
things in proportion. Our life is like a German Confederacy, made 
up of petty states, with its boundary forever fluctuating, so that even 
a German cannot tell you how it is bounded at any moment. The 
nation itself, with all its so called internal improvements, which, by 
the way, are all external and superficial, is just such an unwieldy and 
overgrown establishment, cluttered with furniture and tripped up by 
its own traps, ruined by luxury and heedless expense, by want of cal- 
culation and a worthy aim, as the million households in the land; 
and the only cure for it as for them is in a rigid economy, a stern and 
more than 'Spartan simplicity of life and elevation of purpose. It 
lives too fast. Men think that it is essential that the Nation have 
commerce, and export ice, and talk through a telegraph, and ride 
thirty miles an hour, without a doubt, whether they do or not; but 



HENRY D. THOREAU 483 

whether we should live like baboons or like men, is a little uncertain. 
If we do not get out sleepers, and forge rails, and devote days and 
nights to the work, but go to tinkering upon our lives to improve 
them, who will build railroads ? And if railroads are not built, how 
shall we get to heaven in season ? But if we stay at home and mind 
our business, who will want railroads ? We do not ride on the rail- 
road; it rides upon us. Did you ever think what those sleepers are 
that underlie the railroad? Each one is a man, an Irishman, or a 
Yankee man. The rails are laid on them, and they are covered with 
sand, and the cars run smoothly over them. They are sound sleepers, 
I assure you. And every few years a new lot is laid down and run over ; 
so that, if some have the pleasure of riding on a rail, others have the 
misfortune to be ridden upon. And when they run over a man that 
is walking in his sleep, a supernumerary sleeper in the wrong position, 
and wake him up, they suddenly stop the cars, and make a hue and 
cry about it, as if this were an exception. I am glad to know that it 
takes a gang of men for every five miles to keep the sleepers down 
and level in their beds as it is> for this is a sign that they may some- 
time get up again. 

Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life ? We are 
determined to be starved before we are hungry. Men say that a 
stitch in time saves nine, and so they take a thousand stitches to-day 
to save nine to-morrow. As for work, we haven't any of any conse- 
quence. We have the Saint Vitus' dance, and cannot possibly keep 
our heads still. If I should only give a few pulls at the parish bell- 
rope, as for a fire, that is, without setting the bell, there is hardly a 
man on his farm in the outskirts of Concord, notwithstanding that 
press of engagements which was his excuse so many times this morn- 
ing, nor a boy, nor a woman, I might almost say, but would forsake 
all and follow that sound, not mainly to save property from the 
flames, but, if we will confess the truth, much more to see it burn, 
since burn it must, and we, be it known, did not set it on fire, — or to 
see it put out, and have a hand in it, if that is done as handsomely; 
yes, even if it were the parish church itself. Hardly a man takes a 
half hour's nap after dinner, but when he wakes he holds up his head 
and asks, "What's the news?" as if the rest of mankind had stood 
his sentinels. Some give directions to be waked every half hour, 
doubtless for no other purpose; and then, to pay for it, they tell what 



484 AMERICAN PROSE 



they have dreamed. After a night's sleep the news is as indispensable 
as the breakfast. "Pray tell me any thing new that has happened 
to a man any where on this globe," — and he reads it over his coffee 
and rolls, that a man has had his eyes gouged out this morning on the 
Wachito River; never dreaming the while that he lives in the dark 
unfathomed mammoth cave of this world, and has but the rudiment 
of an eye himself. 

For my part, I could easily do without the post-office. I think 
that there are very few important communications made through it. 
To speak critically, I never received more than one or two letters in 
my life — I wrote this some years ago — that were worth the postage. 
The penny-post is, commonly, an institution through which you 
seriously offer a man that penny for his thoughts which is so often 
safely offered in jest. And I am sure that I never read any memorable 
news in a newspaper. If we read of one man robbed, or murdered, 
or killed by accident, or one house burned, or one vessel wrecked, or 
one steamboat blown up, or one cow run over on the Western Railroad, 
or one mad dog killed, or one lot of grasshoppers in the winter, — we 
never need read of another. One is enough. If you are acquainted 
with the principle, what do you care for a myriad instances and appli- 
cations ? To a philosopher all news, as it is called, is gossip, and they 
who edit and read it are old women over their tea. Yet not a few 
are greedy after this gossip. There was such a rush, as I hear, the 
other day at one of the offices to learn the foreign news by the last 
arrival, that several large squares of plate glass belonging to the estab- 
lishment were broken by the pressure, — news which I seriously think 
a ready wit might write a twelvemonth or twelve years beforehand 
with sufficient accuracy. As for Spain, for instance, if you know how 
to throw in Don Carlos and the Infanta, and Don Pedro and Seville 
and Granada, from time to time in the right proportions, — they may 
have changed the names a little since I saw the papers, — -and serve 
up a bull-fight when other entertainments fail, it will be true to the 
letter, and give us as good an idea of the exact state or ruin of things 
in Spain as the most succinct and lucid reports under this head in the 
newspapers: and as for England, almost the last significant scrap of 
news from that quarter was the revolution of 1649; an d if you have 
learned the history of her crops for an average year, you never need 
attend to that thing again, unless your speculations are of a merely 



HENRY D. THOREAU 485 

pecuniary character. If one may judge who rarely looks into the 
newspapers, nothing new does ever happen in foreign parts, a French 
revolution not excepted. 

What news! how much more important to know what that is 
which was never old! "Kieou-he-yu (great dignitary of the state of 
Wei) sent a man to Khoung-tseu to know his news. Khoung-tseu 
caused the messenger to be seated near him, and questioned him in 
these terms: What is your master doing ? The messenger answered 
with respect: My master desires to diminish the number of his faults, 
but he cannot come to the end of them. The messenger being gone, 
the philosopher remarked: What a worthy messenger! What a 
worthy messenger!" The preacher, instead of vexing the ears of 
drowsy farmers on their day of rest at the end of the week, — for 
Sunday is a fit conclusion of an ill-spent week, and not the fresh and 
brave beginning of a new one, — with this one other draggletail of a 
sermon, should shout with thundering voice, — "Pause! Avast! 
Why so seeming fast, but deadly slow?" 

Shams and delusions are esteemed for soundest truths, while 
reality is fabulous. If men would steadily observe realities only, and 
not allow themselves to be deluded, life, to compare it with such things 
as we know, would be like a fairy tale and the Arabian Nights' 
Entertainments. If we respected only what is inevitable and has a 
right to be, music and poetry would resound along the streets. When 
we are unhurried and wise, we perceive that only great and worthy 
things have any permanent and absolute existence, — that petty fears 
and petty pleasures are but the shadow of the reality. This is always 
exhilarating and sublime. By closing the eyes and slumbering, and 
consenting to be deceived by shows, men establish and confirm their 
daily life of routine and habit every where, which still is built on purely 
illusory foundations. Children, who play life, discern its true law 
and relations more clearly than men, who fail to live it worthily, but 
who think that they are wiser by experience, that is, by failure. I 
have read in a Hindoo book, that "there was a king's son, who, being 
expelled in infancy from his native city, was brought up by a forester, 
and, growing up to maturity in that state, imagined himself to belong 
to the barbarous race with which he lived. One of his father's minis- 
ters having discovered him, revealed to him what he was, and the 
misconception of his character was removed, and he knew himself to 



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be a prince. So soul," continues the Hindoo philosopher, "from the 
circumstances in which it is placed, mistakes its own character, until 
the truth is revealed to it by some holy teacher, and then it knows 
itself to be Brahtne." I perceive that we inhabitants of New England 
live this mean life that we do because our vision, does not penetrate 
the surface of things. We think that that is which appears to be. 
If a man should walk through this town and see only the reality, where, 
think you, would the "Mill-dam" go to? If he should give us an 
account of the realities he beheld there, we should not recognize the 
place in his description. Look at a meeting-house, or a court-house, 
or a jail, or a shop, or a dwelling-house, and say what that thing really 
is before a true gaze, and they would all go to pieces in your account 
of them. Men esteem truth remote, in the outskirts of the system, 
behind the farthest star, before Adam and after the last man. In 
eternity there is indeed something true and sublime. But all these 
times and places and occasions are now and here. God Himself 
culminates in the present moment, and will never be more divine in 
the lapse of all the ages. And we are enabled to apprehend at all 
what is sublime and noble only by the perpetual instilling and drench- 
ing of the reality that surrounds us. The universe constantly and 
obediently answers to our conceptions; whether we travel fast or 
slow, the track is laid for us. Let us spend our lives in conceiving 
then. The poet or the artist never yet had so fair and noble a design 
but some of his posterity at least could accomplish it. 

Let us spend one day as deliberately as Nature, and not be thrown 
off the track by every nutshell and mosquito's wing that falls on the 
rails. Let us rise early and fast, or break fast, gently and without 
perturbation; let company come and let company go, let the bells 
ring and the children cry, — determined to make a day of it. Why 
should we knock under and go with the stream ? Let us not be upset 
and overwhelmed in that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a dinner, 
situated in the meridian shallows. Weather this danger and you are 
safe, for the rest of the way is down hill. With unrelaxed nerves, 
with morning vigor, sail by it, looking another way, tied to the mast 
like Ulysses. If the engine whistles, let it whistle till it is hoarse for 
its pains. If the bell rings, why should we run ? We will consider 
what kind of music they are like. Let us settle ourselves, and work 
and wedge our feet downward through the mud and slush of opinion, 



HENRY D. THOREAU 487 

and prejudice, and tradition, and delusion, and appearance, that 
alluvion which covers the globe, through Paris and London, through 
New York and Boston and Concord, through church and state, 
through poetry and philosophy and religion, till we come to a hard 
bottom and rocks in place, which we can call reality, and say, This is, 
and no mistake; and then begin, having a point d'appui, below freshet 
and frost and fire, a place where you might found a wall or a state, 
or set a lamp-post safely, or perhaps a gauge, not a Nilometer, but a 
Realometer, that future ages might know how deep a freshet of shams 
and appearances had gathered from time to time. If you stand right 
fronting and face to face to a fact, you will see the sun glimmer on 
both its surfaces, as if it were a cimeter, and feel its sweet edge 
dividing you through the heart and marrow, and so you will happily 
conclude your mortal career. Be it life or death, we crave only reality. 
If we are really dying, let us hear the rattle in our throats and feel 
cold in the extremities; if we are alive, let us go about our business. 
Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while 
I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin 
current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; 
fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars. I cannot count 
one. I know not the first letter of the alphabet. I have always been 
regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born. The intellect 
is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things. 
I do not wish to be any more busy with my hands than is necessary. 
My head is hands and feet. I feel all my best faculties concentrated 
in it. My instinct tells me that my head is an organ for burrowing, 
as some creatures use their snout and fore-paws, and with it I would 
mine and burrow my way through these hills. I think that the richest 
vein is somewhere hereabouts; so by the divining rod and thin rising 
vapors I judge; and here I will begin to mine. 

BRUTE NEIGHBORS 

Sometimes I had a companion in my fishing, who came through 
the village to my house from the other side of the town, and the 
catching of the dinner was as much a social exercise as the eating of it. 

Hermit. I wonder what the world is doing now. I have not 
heard so much as a locust over the sweet-fern these three hours. The 
pigeons are all asleep upon their roosts, — no nutter from them. Was 



488 AMERICAN PROSE 



that a farmer's noon horn which sounded from beyond the woods just 
now? The hands are coming in to boiled salt beef and cider and 
Indian bread. Why will men worry themselves so ? He that does 
not eat need not work. I wonder how much they have reaped. Who 
would live there where a body can never think for the barking of 
Bose? And O, the housekeeping! to keep bright the devil's door- 
knobs, and scour his tubs this bright day! Better not keep a house. 
Say, some hollow tree ; and then for morning calls and dinner-parties ! 
Only a wood-pecker tapping. O, they swarm; the sun is too warm 
there; they are born too far into life for me. I have water from the 
spring, and a loaf of brown bread on the shelf.— Hark! I hear a 
rustling of the leaves. Is it some ill-fed village hound yielding to the 
instinct of the chase ? or the lost pig which is said to be in these woods, 
whose tracks I saw after the rain ? It comes on apace; my sumachs 
and sweet-briers tremble. — Eh, Mr. Poet, is it you? How do you 
like the world to-day ? 

Poet. See those clouds; how they hang! That's the greatest 
thing I have seen to-day. There's nothing like it in old paintings, 
nothing like it in foreign lands, — unless when we were off the coast 
of Spain. That's a true Mediterranean sky. I thought, as I have 
my living to get, and have not eaten to-day, that I might go a-fishing. 
That's the true industry for poets. It is the only trade I have learned. 
Come, let's along. 

Hermit. I cannot resist. My brown bread will soon be gone. 
I will go with you gladly soon, but I am just concluding a serious 
meditation. I think that I am near the end of it. Leave me alone, 
then, for a while. But that we may not be delayed, you shall be 
digging the bait meanwhile. Angle-worms are rarely to be met with 
in these parts, where the soil was never fattened with manure; the 
race is nearly extinct. The sport of digging the bait is nearly equal 
to that of catching the fish, when one's appetite is not too keen; and 
this you may have all to yourself to-day. I would advise you to set 
in the spade down yonder among the ground-nuts, where you see the 
johnswort waving. I think that I may warrant you one worm to 
every three sods you turn up, if you look well in among the roots of 
the grass, as if you were weeding. Or, if you choose to go farther, 
it will not be unwise, for I have found the increase of fair bait to be 
very nearly as the squares of the distances. 



HENRY D. THOREAU 489 

Hermit alone. Let me see; where was I? Methinks I was 
nearly in this frame of mind; the world lay about at this angle. Shall 
I go to heaven or a-fishing ? If I should soon bring this meditation 
to an end, would another so sweet occasion be likely to offer ? I was 
as near being resolved into the essence of things as ever I was in my 
life. I fear my thoughts will not come back to me. If it would do 
any good, I would whistle for them. When they make us an offer, 
is it wise to say, We will think of it ? My thoughts have left no track, 
and I cannot find the path again. What was it that I was thinking 
of ? It was a very hazy day. I will just try these three sentences 
of Con-fut-see; they may fetch that state about again. I know not 
whether it was the dumps or a budding ecstasy. Mem. There never 
is but one opportunity of a kind. 

Poet. How now, Hermit, is it too soon ? I have got just thirteen 
whole ones, besides several which are imperfect or undersized; but 
they will do for the smaller fry; they do not cover up the hook so 
much. Those village worms are quite too large; a shiner may make 
a meal off one without finding the skewer. 

Hermit. Well, then, let's be off. Shall we to the Concord? 
There's good sport there if the water be not too high. 

Why do precisely these objects which we behold make a world ? 
Why has man just these species of animals for his neighbors; as if 
nothing but a mouse could have filled this crevice ? I suspect that 
Pilpay & Co. have put animals to their best use, for they are all beasts 
of burden, in a sense, made to carry some portion of our thoughts. 

The mice which haunted my house were not the common ones, 
which are said to have been introduced into the country, but a wild 
native kind not found in the village. I sent one to a distinguished 
naturalist, and it interested him much. When I was building, one 
of these had its nest underneath the house, and before I had laid the 
second floor, and swept out the shavings, would come out regularly 
at lunch time and pick up the crumbs at my feet. It probably had 
never seen a man before ; and it soon became quite familiar, and would 
run over my shoes and up my clothes. It could readily ascend the 
sides of the room by short impulses, like a squirrel, which it resembled 
in its motions. At length, as I leaned with my elbow on the bench 
one day, it ran up my clothes, and along my sleeve, and round and 



490 AMERICAN PROSE 



round the paper which held my dinner, while I kept the latter close, 
and dodged and played at bo-peep with it; and when at last I held 
still a piece of cheese between my thumb and finger, it came and 
nibbled it, sitting in my hand, and afterward cleaned its face and 
paws, like a fly, and walked away. 

A phcebe soon built in my shed, and a robin for protection in a 
pine which grew against the house. In June the partridge, (Tetrao 
umbellus,) which is so shy a bird, led her brood past my windows, 
from the woods in the rear to the front of my house, clucking and 
calling to them like a hen, and in all her behavior proving herself the 
hen of the woods. The young suddenly disperse on your approach, 
at a signal from the mother, as if a whirlwind had swept them away, 
and they so exactly resemble the dried leaves and twigs that many 
a traveller has placed his foot in the midst of a brood, and heard the 
whir of the old bird as she flew off, and her anxious calls and mewing, 
or seen her trail her wings to attract his attention, without suspecting 
their neighborhood. The parent will sometimes roll and spin round 
before you in such a dishabille, that you cannot, for a few moments, 
detect what kind of creature it is. The young squat still and flat, 
often running their heads under a leaf, and mind only their mother's 
directions given from a distance, nor will your approach make them 
run again and betray themselves. You may even tread on them, or 
have your eyes on them for a minute, without discovering them. 
I have held them in my open hand at such a time, and still their only 
care, obedient to their mother and their instinct, was to squat there 
without fear or trembling. So perfect is this instinct, that once, 
when I had laid them on the leaves again, and one accidentally fell 
on its side, it was found with the rest in exactly the same position 
ten minutes afterward. They are not callow like the young of most 
birds, but more perfectly developed and precocious even than 
chickens. The remarkably adult yet innocent expression of their 
open and serene eyes is very memorable. All intelligence seems 
reflected in them. They suggest not merely the purity of infancy, 
but a wisdom clarified by experience. Such an eye was not born 
when the bird was, but is coeval with the sky it reflects. The woods 
do not yield another such a gem. The traveller does not often look 
into such a limpid well. The ignorant or reckless sportsman often 
shoots the parent at such a time, and leaves these innocents to fall 



HENRY D. THOREAU 491 

a prey to some prowling beast or bird, or gradually mingle with the 
decaying leaves which they so much resemble. It is said that when 
hatched by a hen they will directly disperse on some alarm, and so 
are lost, for they never hear the mother's call which gathers them 
again. These were my hens and chickens. 

It is remarkable how many creatures live wild and free though 
secret in the woods, and still sustain themselves in the neighborhood 
of towns, suspected by hunters only. How retired the otter manages 
to live here! He grows to be four feet long, as big as a small boy, 
perhaps without any human being getting a glimpse of him. I 
formerly saw the raccoon in the woods behind where my house is 
built, and probably still heard their whinnering at night. Commonly 
I rested an hour or two in the shade at noon, after planting, and ate 
my lunch, and read a little by a spring which was the source of a 
swamp and of a brook, oozing from under Brister's Hill, half a mile 
from my field. The approach to this was through a succession of 
descending grassy hollows, full of young pitch-pines, into a larger wood 
about the swamp. There, in a very secluded and shaded spot, under 
a spreading white-pine, there was yet a clean firm sward to sit on. 
I had dug out the spring and made a well of clear gray water, where 
I could dip up a pailful without roiling it, and thither I went for 
this purpose almost every day in midsummer, when the pond was 
warmest. Thither too the wood-cock led her brood, to probe the 
mud for worms, flying but a foot above them down the bank, while 
they ran in a troop beneath; but at last, spying me, she would leave 
her young and circle round and round me, nearer and nearer till within 
four or five feet, pretending broken wings and legs, to attract my 
attention, and get off her young, who would already have taken up 
their march, with faint wiry peep, single file through the swamp, as 
she directed. Or I heard the peep of the young when I could not 
see the parent bird. There too the turtle-doves sat over the spring, 
or fluttered from bough to bough of the soft white-pines over my 
head; or the red squirrel, coursing down the nearest bough, was 
particularly familiar and inquisitive. You only need sit still long 
enough in some attractive spot in the woods that all its inhabitants 
may exhibit themselves to you by turns. 

I was witness to events of a less peaceful character. One day 
when I went out to my wood-pile, or rather my pile of stumps, I 



492 AMERICAN PROSE 



observed two large ants, the one red, the other much larger, nearly 
half an inch long, and black, fiercely contending with one another. 
Having once got hold they never let go, but struggled and wrestled 
and rolled on the chips incessantly. Looking farther, I was surprised 
to find that the chips were covered with such combatants, that it 
was not a dnellum, but a bellum, a war between two races of ants, the 
red always pitted against the black, and frequently two red ones to 
one black. The legions of these Myrmidons covered all the hills 
and vales in my wood-yard, and the ground was already strewn with 
the dead and dying, both red and black. It was the only battle 
which I have ever witnessed, the only battle-field I ever trod while 
the battle was raging; internecine war; the red republicans on the 
one hand, and the black imperialists on the other. On every side 
they were engaged in deadly combat, yet without any noise that I 
could hear, and human soldiers never fought so resolutely. I watched 
a couple that were fast locked in each other's embraces, in a little 
sunny valley amid the chips, now at noon-day prepared to fight till 
the sun went down, or life went but. The smaller red champion had 
fastened himself like a vice to his adversary's front, and through all 
the tumblings on that field never for an instant ceased to gnaw at 
one of his feelers near the root, having already caused the other to 
go by the board; while the stronger black one dashed him from side 
to side, and, as I saw on looking nearer, had already divested him of 
several of his members. They fought with more pertinacity than 
bull-dogs. Neither manifested the least disposition to retreat. It 
was evident that their battle-cry was Conquer or die. In the mean 
while there came along a single red ant on the hill-side of this valley, 
evidently full of excitement, who either had despatched his foe, or 
had not yet taken part in the battle; probably the latter, for he had 
lost none of his limbs; whose mother had charged him to return with 
his shield or upon it. Or perchance he was some Achilles, who had 
nourished his wrath apart, and had now come to avenge or rescue 
his Patroclus. He saw this unequal combat from afar, — for the 
blacks were nearly twice the size of the red, — he drew near with rapid 
pace till he stood on his guard within half an inch of the combatants; 
then, watching his opportunity, he sprang upon the black warrior, and 
commenced his operations near the root of his right fore -leg, leaving 
the foe to select among his own members; and so there were three 



HENRY D. THOREAU 493 

united for life, as if a new kind of attraction had been invented which 
put all other locks and cements to shame. I should not have won- 
dered by this time to find that they had their respective musical bands 
stationed on some eminent chip, and playing their national airs the 
while, to excite the slow and cheer the dying combatants. I was 
myself excited somewhat even as if they had been men. The more 
you think of it, the less the difference. And certainly there is not 
the fight recorded in Concord history, at least, if in the history of 
America, that will bear a moment's comparison with this, whether 
for the numbers engaged in it, or for the patriotism and heroism 
displayed. For numbers and for carnage it was an Austerlitz or 
Dresden. Concord Fight! Two killed on the patriots' side, and 
Luther Blanchard wounded! Why here every ant was a Buttrick, — 
"Fire! for God's sake fire!" — and thousands shared the fate of Davis 
and Hosmer. There was not one hireling there. I have no doubt 
that it was a principle they fought for, as much as our ancestors, and 
not to avoid a three-penny tax on their tea; and the results of this 
battle will be as important and memorable to those whom it concerns 
as those of the battle of Bunker Hill, at least. 

I took up the chip on which the three I have particularly described 
were struggling, carried it into my house, and placed it under a tum- 
bler on my window-sill, in order to see the issue. Holding a micro- 
scope to the first-mentioned red ant, I saw that, though he was 
assiduously gnawing at the near fore-leg of his enemy, having severed 
his remaining feeler, his own breast was all torn away, exposing what 
vitals he had there to the jaws of the black warrior, whose breastplate 
was apparently too thick for him to pierce; and the dark carbuncles 
of the sufferer's eyes shone with ferocity such as war only could excite. 
They struggled half an hour longer under the tumbler, and when I 
looked again the black soldier had severed the heads of his foes from 
their bodies, and the still living heads were hanging on either side of 
him like ghastly trophies at his saddle-bow, still apparently as firmly 
fastened as ever, and he was endeavoring with feeble struggles, being 
without feelers and with only the remnant of a leg, and I know not 
how many other wounds, to divest himself of them; which at length, 
after half an hour more, he accomplished. I raised the glass, and 
he went off over the window-sill in that crippled state. Whether he 
finally survived that combat, and spent the remainder of his days 



494 AMERICAN PROSE 



in some Hotel des Invalides, I do not know; but I thought that his 
industry would not be worth much thereafter. I never learned which 
party was victorious, nor the cause of the war; but I felt for the rest 
of that day as if I had had my feelings excited and harrowed by wit- 
nessing the struggle, the ferocity and carnage, of a human battle 
before my door. 

Kirby and Spence tell us that the battles of ants have long been 
celebrated and the date of them recorded, though they say that 
Huber is the only modern author who appears to have witnessed 
them. "iEneas Sylvius," say they, "after giving a very circum- 
stantial account of one contested with great obstinacy by a great and 
small species on the trunk of a pear tree," adds that "'This action 
was fought in the pontificate of Eugenius the Fourth, in the presence 
of Nicholas Pistoriensis, an eminent lawyer, who related the whole 
history of the battle with the greatest fidelity.' A similar engage- 
ment between great and small ants is recorded by Olaus Magnus, 
in which the small ones, being victorious, are said to have buried the 
bodies of their own soldiers, but left those of their giant enemies a 
prey to the birds. This event happened previous to the expulsion of 
the tyrant Christiern the Second from Sweden." The battle which 
I witnessed took place in the Presidency of Polk, five years before 
the passage of Webster's Fugitive-Slave Bill. 

Many a village Bose, fit only to course a mud- turtle in a victual- 
ling cellar, sported his heavy quarters in the woods, without the knowl- 
edge of his master, and ineffectually smelled at old fox burrows and 
woodchucks' holes; led perchance by some slight cur which nimbly 
threaded the wood, and might still inspire a natural terror in its 
denizens; — now far behind his guide, barking like a canine bull toward 
some small squirrel which had treed itself for scrutiny, then, cantering 
off, bending the bushes with his weight, imagining that he is on the 
track of some stray member of the jerbilla family. Once I was sur- 
prised to see a cat walking along the stony shore of the pond, for they 
rarely wander so far from home. The surprise was mutual. Never- 
theless the most domestic cat, which has lain on a rug all her days, 
appears quite at home in the woods, and, by her sly and stealthy 
behavior, proves herself more native there than the regular inhabit- 
ants. Once, when berrying, I met with a cat with young kittens in 
the woods, quite wild, and they all, like their mother, had their backs 



HENRY D. THOREAU 495 

up and were fiercely spitting at me. A few years before I lived in 
the woods there was what was called a "winged cat" in one of the 
farm-houses in Lincoln nearest the pond, Mr. Gilian Baker's. When 
I called to see her in June, 1842, she was gone a-hunting in the woods, 
as was her wont, (I am not sure whether it was a male or female, and 
so use the more common pronoun,) but her mistress told me that she 
came into the neighborhood a little more than a year before, in 
April, and was finally taken into their house; that she was of a dark 
brownish-gray color, with a white spot on her throat, and white feet, 
and had a large bushy tail like a fox; that in the winter the fur grew 
thick and flatted out along her sides, forming strips ten or twelve 
inches long by two and a half wide, and under her chin like a muff, 
the upper side loose, the under matted like felt, and in the spring 
these appendages dropped off. They gave me a pair of her "wings," 
which I keep still. There is no appearance of a membrane about 
them. Some thought it was part flying-squirrel or some other wild 
animal, which is not impossible, for, according to naturalists, prolific 
hybrids have been produced by the union of the marten and domestic 
cat. This would have been the right kind of cat for me to keep, if 
I had kept any; for why should not a poet's cat be winged as well 
as his horse ? 

In the fall the loon (Colymbus glacialis) came, as usual, to moult 
and bathe in the pond, making the woods ring with his wild laughter 
before I had risen. At rumor of his arrival all the Mill-dam sports- 
men are on the alert, in gigs and on foot, two by two and three by 
three, with patent rifles and conical balls and spy-glasses. They 
come rustling through the woods like autumn leaves, at least ten 
men to one loon. Some station themselves on this side of the pond, 
some on that, for the poor bird cannot be omnipresent; if he dive 
here he must come up there. But now the kind October wind rises, 
rustling the leaves and rippling the surface of the water, so that no 
loon can be heard or seen, though his foes sweep the pond with spy- 
glasses, and make the woods resound with their discharges. The 
waves generously rise and dash angrily, taking sides with all water- 
fowl, and our sportsmen must beat a retreat to town and shop and 
unfinished jobs. But they were too often successful. When I went 
to get a pail of water early in the morning I frequently saw this stately 
bird sailing out of my cove within a few rods. If I endeavored to 



496 AMERICAN PROSE 



overtake him in a boat, in order to see how he would manoeuvre, he 
would dive and be completely lost, so that I did not discover him 
again, sometimes, till the latter part of the day. J3ut I was more 
than a match for him on the surface. He commonly went off in a rain. 
As I was paddling along the north shore one very calm October 
afternoon, for such days especially they settle on to the lakes, like 
the milkweed down, having looked in vain over the pond for a loon, 
suddenly one, sailing out from the shore toward the middle a few 
rods in front of me, set up his wild laugh and betrayed himself. I 
pursued with a paddle and he dived, but when he came up I was 
nearer than before. He dived again, but I miscalculated the direc- 
tion he would take, and we were fifty rods apart when he came to 
the surface this time, for I had helped to widen the interval; and 
again he laughed long and loud, and with more reason than before. 
He manoeuvred so cunningly that I could not get within half a dozen 
rods of him. Each time, when he came to the surface, turning his 
head this way and that, he coolly surveyed the water and the land, and 
apparently chose his course so that he might come up where there was 
the widest expanse of water and at the greatest distance from the boat. 
It was surprising how quickly he made up his mind and put his 
resolve into execution. He led me at once to the widest part of the 
pond, and could not be driven from it. While he was thinking one 
thing in his brain, I was endeavoring to divine his thought in mine. 
It was a pretty game, played on the smooth surface of the pond, a 
man against a loon. Suddenly your adversary's checker disappears 
beneath the board, and the problem is to place yours nearest to where 
his will appear again. Sometimes he would come up unexpectedly 
on the opposite side of me, having apparently passed directly under 
the boat. So long-winded was he and so unweariable, that when he 
had swum farthest he would immediately plunge again, nevertheless; 
and then no wit could divine where in the deep pond, beneath the 
smooth surface, he might be speeding his way like a fish, for he had 
time and ability to visit the bottom of the pond in its deepest part. 
It is said that loons have been caught in the New York lakes eighty 
feet beneath the surface, with hooks set for trout, — though Walden 
is deeper than that. How surprised must the fishes be to see this 
ungainly visitor from another sphere speeding his way amid their 
schools! Yet he appeared to know his course as surely under water 



HENRY D. THOREAU 497 

as on the surface, and swam much faster there. Once or twice I saw 
a ripple where he approached the surface, just put his head out to 
reconnoitre, and instantly dived again. I found that it was as well 
for me to rest on my oars and wait his reappearing as to endeavor to 
calculate where he would rise; for again and again, when I was 
straining my eyes over the surface one way, I would suddenly be 
startled by his unearthly laugh behind me. But why, after displaying 
so much cunning, did he invariably betray himself the moment he 
came up by that loud laugh? Did not his white breast enough 
betray him ? He was indeed a silly loon, I thought. I could com- 
monly hear the plash of the water when he came up, and so also 
detected him. But after an hour he seemed as fresh as ever, dived 
as willingly and swam yet farther than at first. It was surprising to 
see how serenely he sailed off with unruffled breast when he came 
to the surface, doing all the work with his webbed feet beneath. His 
usual note was this demoniac laughter, yet somewhat like that of a 
water-fowl; but occasionally, when he had balked me most success- 
fully and come up a long way off, he uttered a long-drawn unearthly 
howl, probably more like that of a wolf than any bird; as when a 
beast puts his muzzle to the ground and deliberately howls. This 
was his looning, — perhaps the wildest sound that is ever heard here, 
making the woods ring far and wide. I concluded that he laughed 
in derision of my efforts, confident of his own resources. Though the 
sky was by this time overcast, the pond was so smooth that I could 
see where he broke the surface when I did not hear him. His white 
breast, the stillness of the air, and the smoothness of the water were 
all against him. At length, having come up fifty rods off, he uttered 
one of those prolonged howls, as if calling on the god of loons to aid 
him, and immediately there came a wind from the east and rippled 
the surface, and filled the whole air with misty rain, and I was 
impressed as if it were the prayer of the loon answered, and his god 
was angry with me; and so I left him disappearing far away on the 
tumultuous surface. 

For hours, in fall days, I watched the ducks cunningly tack and 
veer and hold the middle of the pond, far from the sportsman; tricks 
which they will have less need to practise in Louisiana bayous. When 
compelled to rise they would sometimes circle round and round and 
over the pond at a considerable height, from which they could easily 



498 AMERICAN PROSE 



see to other ponds and the river, like black motes in the sky; and, 
when I thought they had gone off thither long since, they would settle 
down by a slanting flight of a quarter of a mile on to a distant part 
which was left free; but what besides safety they got by sailing in 
the middle of Walden I do not know, unless they love its water for 
the same reason that I do. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

FROM 

THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE 
rv. 

[I am so well pleased with my boarding-house that I intend to 
remain there, perhaps for years. Of course I shall have a great many 
conversations to report, and they will necessarily be of different tone 
and on different subjects. The talks are like the breakfasts, — some- 
times dipped toast, and sometimes dry. You must take them as they 
come. How can I do what all these letters ask me to ? No. i. wants 
serious and earnest thought. No. 2. (letter smells of bad cigars) 
must have more jokes; wants me to tell a "good storey" which he 
has copied out for me. (I suppose two letters before the word "good " 
refer to some Doctor of Divinity who told the story.) No. 3. (in 
female hand) — more poetry. No. 4. wants something that would 
be of use to a practical man. (Prahctical mahn he probably pro- 
nounces it.) No. 5. (gilt-edged, sweet-scented) — "more sentiment," — 
"heart's outpourings." 

My dear friends, one and all, I can do nothing but report such 
remarks as I happen to have made at our breakfast-table. Their 
character will depend on many accidents, — a good deal on the par- 
ticular persons in the company to whom they were addressed. It so 
happens that those which follow were mainly intended for the divinity- 
student and the schoolmistress; though others whom I need not 
mention saw fit to interfere, with more or less propriety, in the con- 
versation. This is one of my privileges as a talker; and of course, 
if I was not talking for our whole company, I don't expect all the 
readers of this periodical to be interested in my notes of what was 
said. Still, I think there may be a few that will rather like this vein, 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 499 

— possibly prefer it to a livelier one, — serious young men, and young 

women generally, in life's roseate parenthesis from years of age 

to inclusive. 

Another privilege of talking is to misquote. — Of course it wasn't 
Proserpina that actually cut the yellow hair, — but Iris. (As I have 
since told you) it was the former lady's regular business, but Dido had 
used herself ungenteelly, and Madame d'Enfer stood firm on the point 
of etiquette. So the bathycolpian Here — Juno, in Latin — sent down 
Iris instead. But I was mightily pleased to see that one of the gentle- 
men that do the heavy articles for the celebrated "Oceanic Miscel- 
lany" misquoted Campbell's line without any excuse. "Waft us 
home the message," of course it ought to be. Will he be duly grateful 
for the correction ?] 

The more we study the body and the mind, the more we find 

both to be governed, not by, but according to laws, such as we observe 
in the larger universe. — You think you know all about walking, — 
don't you, now? Well, how do you suppose your lower limbs are 
held to your body? They are sucked up by two cupping vessels, 
("cotyloid" — cup-like — cavities,) and held there as long as you live, 
and longer. At any rate, you think you move them backward and 
forward at such a rate as your will determines, don't you ? On the 
contrary, they swing just as any other pendulums swing, at a fixed 
rate, determined by their length. You can alter this by muscular 
power, as you can take hold of the pendulum of a clock and make it 
move faster or slower; but your ordinary gait is timed by the same 
mechanism as the movements of the solar system. 

[My friend, the Professor, told me all this, referring me to certain 
German physiologists by the name of Weber for proof of the facts, 
which, however, he said he had often verified. I appropriated it to 
my own use; what can one do better than this, when one has a friend 
that tells him anything worth remembering ? 

The Professor seems to think that man and the general powers 
of the universe are in partnership. Some one was saying that it had 
cost nearly half a million to move the Leviathan only so far as they 
had got it already. — Why, — said the Professor, — they might have 
hired an earthquake for less money!] 

Just as we find a mathematical rule at the bottom of many of the 
bodily movements, just so thought may be supposed to have its 



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regular cycles. Such or such a thought comes round periodically, in 
its turn. Accidental suggestions, however, so far interfere with the 
regular cycles, that we may find them practically beyond our power 
of recognition. Take all this for what it is worth, but at any rate 
you will agree that there are certain particular thoughts that do not 
come up once a day, nor once a week, but that a year would 
hardly go round without your having them pass through your mind. 
Here is one which comes up at intervals in this way. Some one 
speaks of it, and there is an instant and eager smile of assent in 
the listener or listeners. Yes, indeed; they have often been struck 
by it. 

All at once a conviction flashes through us that we have been in the 
same precise circumstances as at the present instant, once or many 
times before. 

O, dear, yes! — said one of the company, — everybody has had that 
feeling. 

The landlady didn't know anything about such notions; it was 
an idee in folks' heads, she expected. 

The schoolmistress said, in a hesitating sort of way, that she knew 
the feeling well, and didn't like to experience it; it made her think she 
was a ghost, sometimes. 

The young fellow whom they call John said he knew all about it ; 
he had just lighted a cheroot the other day, when a tremendous con- 
viction all at once came over him that he had done just that same 
thing ever so many times before. I looked severely at him, and his 
countenance immediately fell — on the side toward me; I cannot answer 
for the other, for he can wink and laugh with either half of his face 
without the other half's knowing it. 

1 have noticed — I went on to say — the following circum- 
stances connected with these sudden impressions. First, that the 
condition which seems to be the duplicate of a former one is often very 
trivial, — one that might have presented itself a hundred times. 
Secondly, that the impression is very evanescent, and that it is rarely, 
if ever, recalled by any voluntary effort, at least after any time has 
elapsed. Thirdly, that there is a disinclination to record the circum- 
stances, and a sense of incapacity to reproduce the state of mind in 
words. Fourthly, I have often felt that the duplicate condition had 
not only occurred once before, but that it was familiar and, as it 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 50 1 

seemed, habitual. Lastly, I have had the same convictions in my 
dreams. 

How do I account for it ? — Why, there are several ways that I 
can mention, and you may take your choice. The first is that which 
the young lady hinted at; — that these flashes are sudden recollections 
of a previous existence. I don't believe that; for I remember a poor 
student I used to know told me he had such a conviction one day when 
he was blacking his boots, and I can't think he had ever lived in 
another world where they use Day and Martin. 

Some think that Dr. Wigan's doctrine of the brain's being a 
double organ, its hemispheres working together like the two eyes, 
accounts for it. One of the hemispheres hangs fire, they suppose, 
and the small interval between the perceptions of the nimble and the 
sluggish half seems an indefinitely long period, and therefore the 
second perception appears to be the copy of another, ever so old. 
But even allowing the centre of perception to be double, I can see no 
good reason for supposing this indefinite lengthening of the time, nor 
any analogy that bears it out. It seems to me most likely that the 
coincidence of circumstances is very partial, but that we take this 
partial resemblance for identity, as we occasionally do resemblances 
of persons. A momentary posture of circumstances is so far like some 
preceding one that we accept it as exactly the same, just as we accost 
a stranger occasionally, mistaking him for a friend. The apparent 
similarity may be owing perhaps, quite as much to the mental state 
at the time, as to the outward circumstances. 

Here is another of these curiously recurring remarks. I have 

said it, and heard it many times, and occasionally met with something 
like it in books, — somewhere in Bulwer's novels, I think, and in one 
of the works of Mr. Olmsted, I know. 

Memory, imagination, old sentiments and associations, are more 
readily reached through the sense of smell than by almost any other 
channel. 

Of course the particular odors which act upon each person's sus- 
ceptibilities differ. — O, yes! I will tell you some of mine. The smell 
of phosphorus is one of them. During a year or two of adolescence 
I used to be dabbling in chemistry a good deal, and as about that 
time I had my little aspirations and passions like another, some of 
these things got mixed up with each other: orange-colored fumes of 



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nitrous acid, and visions as bright and transient; reddening litmus- 
paper, and blushing cheeks; — eheu! 

" Soles occidere et redire possunt," 

but there is no reagent that will redden the faded roses of eighteen 

hundred and spare them ! But, as I was saying, phosphorus fires 

this train of associations in an instant; its luminous vapors with their 
penetrating odor throw me into a trance; it comes to me in a double 
sense "trailing clouds of glory." Only the confounded Vienna 
matches, ohne phosphor-geruch, have worn my sensibilities a little. 

Then there is the marigold. When I was of smallest dimensions, 
and wont to ride impacted between the knees of fond parental pair, 
we would sometimes cross the bridge to the next village-town and 
stop opposite a low, brown, "gambrel-roofed" cottage. Out of it 
would come one Sally, sister of its swarthy tenant, swarthy herself, 
shady-lipped, sad-voiced, and, bending over her flower-bed, would 
gather a "posy," as she called it, for the little boy. Sally lies in the 
churchyard with a slab of blue slate at her head, lichen-crusted, and 
leaning a little within the last few years. Cottage, garden-beds, 
posies, grenadier-like rows of seedling onions, — stateliest of vege- 
tables, — all are gone, but the breath of a marigold brings them all 
back to me. 

Perhaps the herb everlasting, the fragrant immortelle of our autumn 
fields, has the most suggestive odor to me of all those that set me 
dreaming. I can hardly describe the strange thoughts and emotions 
that come to me as I inhale the aroma of its pale, dry, rustling flowers. 
A something it has of sepulchral spicery, as if it had been brought 
from the core of some great pyramid, where it had lain on the breast 
of a mummied Pharaoh. Something, too, of immortality in the sad, 
faint sweetness lingering so long in its lifeless petals. Yet this does 
not tell why it fills my eyes with tears and carries me in blissful 
thought to the banks of asphodel that border the River of Life. 

1 should not have talked so much about these personal sus- 
ceptibilities, if I had not a remark to make about them which I 
believe is a new one. It is this. There may be a physical reason for 
the strange connection between the sense of smell and the mind. The 
olfactory nerve — so my friend, the Professor, tells me — is the only one 
directly connected with the hemispheres of the brain, the parts in 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 503 

which, as we have every reason to believe, the intellectual processes 
are performed. To speak more truly, the olfactory "nerve" is not 
a nerve at all, he says, but a part of the brain, in intimate connection 
with its anterior lobes. Whether this anatomical arrangement is at 
the bottom of the facts I have mentioned, I will not decide, but it is 
curious enough to be worth remembering. Contrast the sense of 
taste, as a source of suggestive impressions, with that of smell. Now 
the Professor assures me that you will find the nerve of taste has no 
immediate connection with the brain proper, but only with the 
prolongation of the spinal cord. 

[The old gentleman opposite did not pay much attention, I think, 
to this hypothesis of mine. But while I was speaking about the sense 
of smell he nestled about in his seat, and presently succeeded in getting 
out a large red bandanna handkerchief. Then he lurched a little to 
the other side, and after much tribulation at last extricated an ample 
round snuff-box. I looked as he opened it and felt for the wonted 
pugil. Moist rappee, and a tonka-bean lying therein. I made the 
manual sign understood of all mankind that use the precious dust, 
and presently my brain, too, responded to the long unused stimulus. 

O boys, — that were, — actual papas and possible grandpapas, — 

some of you with crowns like billiard-balls, — some in locks of sable 
silvered, and some of silver sabled, — do you remember, as you doze 
over this, those after-dinners at the Trois Freres, when the Scotch- 
plaided snuff-box went round, and the dry Lundy-Foot tickled its 
way along into our happy sensoria ? Then it was that the Chamber- 
tin or the Clos Vougeot came in, slumbering in its straw cradle. And 
one among you, — do you remember how he would have a bit of ice 
always in his Burgundy, and sit tinkling it against the sides of the 
bubble-like glass, saying that he was hearing the cow-bells as he used 
to hear them, when the deep-breathing kine came home at twilight 
from the huckleberry pasture, in the old home a thousand leagues 
towards the sunset ?] 

Ah me! what strains and strophes of unwritten verse pulsate 
through my soul when I open a certain closet in the ancient house 
where I was born! On its shelves used to lie bundles of sweet- 
marjoram and pennyroyal and lavender and mint and catnip; there 
apples were stored until their seeds should grow black, which happy 
period there were sharp little milk-teeth always ready to anticipate; 



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there peaches lay in the dark, thinking of the sunshine they had lost, 
until, like the hearts of saints that dream of heaven in their sorrow, 
they grew fragrant as the breath of angels. The odorous echo of a 
score of dead summers lingers yet in those dim recesses. 

Do I remember Byron's line about "striking the electric 

chain" ? — To be sure I do. I sometimes think the less the hint that 
stirs the automatic machinery of association, the more easily this 
moves us. What can be more trivial than that old story of opening 
the folio Shakspeare that used to lie in some ancient English hall 
and finding the flakes of Christmas pastry between its leaves, shut 
up in them perhaps a hundred years ago? And lo! as one looks on 
these poor relics of a bygone generation, the universe changes in the 
twinkling of an eye; old George the Second is back again, and the 
elder Pitt is coming into power, and General Wolfe is a fine, promising 
young man, and over the Channel they are pulling the Sieur Damiens 
to pieces with wild horses, and across the Atlantic the Indians are 
tomahawking Hirams and Jonathans and Jonases at Fort William 
Henry; all the dead people who have been in the dust so long — even 
to the stout-armed cook that made the pastry — are alive again; the 
planet unwinds a hundred of its luminous coils, and the precession of 
the equinoxes is retraced on the dial of heaven! And all this for a 
bit of pie-crust ! 

1 will thank you for that pie, — said the provoking young 

fellow whom I have named repeatedly. He looked at it for a moment, 
and put his hands to his eyes as if moved. — I was thinking, — he said 
indistinctly 

How ? What is 't ? — said our landlady. 

1 was thinking — said he — who was king of England when 

this old pie was baked, — and it made me feel bad to think how long 
he must have been. dead. 

[Our landlady is a decent body, poor, and a widow, of course; 
cela va sans dire. She told me her story once; it was as if a grain of 
corn that had been ground and bolted had tried to individualize itself 
by a special narrative. There was the wooing and the wedding, — 
the start in life, — the disappointment, — the children she had buried, — ■ 
the struggle against fate, — the dismantling of life, first of its small 
luxuries, and then of its comforts, — the broken spirits, — the altered 
character of the one on whom she leaned, — and at last the death that 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES $05 

came and drew the black curtain between her and all her earthly 
hopes. 

I never laughed at my landlady after she had told me her story, 
but I often cried, — not those pattering tears that run off the eaves 
upon our neighbors' grounds, the stillicidium of self-conscious senti- 
ment, but those which steal noiselessly through their conduits until 
they reach the cisterns lying round about the heart; those tears that 
we weep inwardly with unchanging features; — such I did shed for 
her often when the imps of the boarding-house Inferno tugged at her 
soul with their red-hot pincers.] 

Young man, — I said, — the pasty you speak lightly of is not old, 
but courtesy to those who labor to serve us, especially if they are of 
the weaker sex, is very old, and yet well worth retaining. May I 
recommend to you the following caution, as a guide, whenever you 
are dealing with a woman, or an artist, or a poet; — if you are handling 
an editor or politician, it is superfluous advice. I take it from the 
back of one of those little French toys which contain pasteboard 
figures moved by a small running stream of fine sand; Benjamin 
Franklin will translate it for you: "Quoiqu'elle soit tres solidement 
montee il faut ne pas brutaliser la machine." — I will thank you for 
the pie, if you please. 

[I took more of it than was good for me, — as much as 85°, I 
should think, — and had an indigestion in consequence. While I was 
suffering from it, I wrote some sadly desponding poems, and a theo- 
logical essay which took a very melancholy view of creation. When 
I got better I labelled them all "Pie-crust," and laid them by as scare- 
crows and solemn warnings. I have a number of books on my shelves 
that I should like to label with some such title; but, as they have 
great names on their title-pages, — Doctors of Divinity, some of them, 
— it wouldn't do.] 

My friend, the Professor, whom I have mentioned to you 

once or twice, told me yesterday that somebody had been abusing him 
in some of the journals of his calling. I told him that I didn't doubt 
he deserved it; that I hoped he did deserve a little abuse occasionally, 
and would for a number of years to come; that nobody could do any- 
thing to make his neighbors wiser or better without being liable to 
abuse for it; especially that people hated to have their little mistakes 
made fun of, and perhaps he had been doing something of the kind. — 



5o6 AMERICAN PROSE 



The Professor smiled. — Now, said I, hear what I am going to say. 
It will not take many years to bring you to the period of life when 
men, at least the majority of writing and talking men, do nothing 
but praise. Men, like peaches and pears, grow sweet a little while 
before they begin to decay. I don't know what it is, — whether a 
spontaneous change, mental or bodily, or whether it is thorough 
experience of the thanklessness of critical honesty, — but it is a fact, 
that most writers, except sour and unsuccessful ones, get tired of find- 
ing fault at about the time when they are beginning to grow old. 
As a general thing, I would not give a great deal for the fair words of a 
critic, if he is himself an author, over fifty years of age. At thirty we 
are all trying to cut our names in big letters upon the walls of this 
tenement of life; twenty years later we have carved it, or shut up 
our jack-knives. Then we are ready to help others, and care less to 
hinder any, because nobody's elbows are in our way. So I am glad 
you have a little life left; you will be saccharine enough in a few years. 

Some of the softening effects of advancing age have struck 

me very much in what I have heard or seen here and elsewhere. I just 
now spoke of the sweetening process that authors undergo. Do you 
know that in the gradual passage from maturity to helplessness the 
harshest characters sometimes have a period in which they are gentle 
and placid as young children ? I have heard it said, but I cannot be 
sponsor for its truth, that the famous chieftain, Lochiel, was rocked 
in a cradle like a baby, in his old age. An old man, whose studies 
had been of the severest scholastic kind, used to love to hear little 
nursery-stories read over and over to him. One who saw the Duke 
of Wellington in his last years describes him as very gentle in his 
aspect and demeanor. I remember a person of singularly stern and 
lofty bearing who became remarkably gracious and easy in all his 
ways in the later period of his life. 

And that leads me to say that men often remind me of pears in 
their way of coming to maturity. Some are ripe at twenty, like 
human Jargonelles, and must be made the most of, for their day is 
soon over. Some come into their perfect condition late, like the 
autumn kinds, and they last better than the summer fruit. And 
some, that, like the Winter-Nelis, have been hard and uninviting until 
all the rest have had their season, get their glow and perfume long 
after the frost and snow have done their worst with the orchards. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 507 

Beware of rash criticisms; the rough and stringent fruit you condemn 
may be an autumn or a winter pear, and that which you picked up 
beneath the same bough in August may have been only its worm- 
eaten windfalls. Milton was a Saint-Germain with a graft of the 
roseate Early-Catherine. Rich, juicy, lively, fragrant, russet skinned 
old Chaucer was an Easter-Beurre; the buds of a new summer were 
swelling when he ripened. 

There is no power I envy so much — said the divinity-student 

— as that of seeing analogies and making comparisons. I don't under- 
stand how it is that some minds are continually coupling thoughts or 
objects that seem not in the least related to each other, until all at 
once they are put in a certain light, and you wonder that you did not 
always see that they were as like as a pair of twins. It appears to 
me a sort of miraculous gift. 

[He is rather a nice young man, and I think has an appreciation 
of the higher mental qualities remarkable for one of his years and 
training. I try his head occasionally as housewives try eggs, — give 
it an intellectual shake and hold it up to the light, so to speak, to see 
if it has life in it, actual or potential, or only contains lifeless albumen.] 

You call it miraculous, — I replied, — tossing the expression with 
my facial eminence, a little smartly, I fear. — Two men are walking 
by the polyphlcesbcean ocean, one of them having a small tin cup 
with which he can scoop up a gill of sea-water when he will, and the 
other nothing but his hands, which will hardly hold water at all, — 
and you call the tin cup a miraculous possession! It is the ocean that 
is the miracle, my infant apostle! Nothing is clearer than that all 
things are in all things, and that just according to the intensity and 
extension of our mental being we shall see the many in the one and 
the one in the many. Did Sir Isaac think what he was saying when 
he made his speech about the ocean, — the child and the pebbles, you 
know ? Did he mean to speak slightingly of a pebble ? Of a spherical 
solid which stood sentinel over its compartment of space before the 
stone that became the pyramids had grown solid, and has watched 
it until now! A body which knows all the currents of force that 
traverse the globe; which holds by invisible threads to the ring of 
Saturn and the belt of Orion! A body from the contemplation of 
which an archangel could infer the entire inorganic universe as the 
simplest of corollaries! A throne of the all-pervading Deity, who has 



508 AMERICAN PROSE 



guided its every atom since the rosary of heaven was strung with 
beaded stars! 

So, — to return to our walk by the ocean, — if all that poetry has 
dreamed, all that insanity has raved, all that maddening narcotics 
have driven through the brains of men, or smothered passion nursed 
in the fancies of women, — if the dreams of colleges and convents and 
boarding-schools, — if every human feeling that sighs, or smiles, or 
curses, or shrieks, or groans, should bring all their innumerable images, 
such as come with every hurried heart-beat, — the epic which held 
them all, though its letters filled the zodiac, would be but a cupful from 
the infinite ocean of similitudes and analogies that rolls through the 
universe. 

[The divinity-student honored himself by the way in which he 
received this. He did not swallow it at once, neither did he reject 
it; but he took it as a pickerel takes the bait, and carried it off with 
him to his hole (in the fourth story) to deal with at his leisure.] 

Here is another remark made for his especial benefit. — There 

is a natural tendency in many persons to run their adjectives together 
in triads, as I have heard them called, — thus: He was honorable, 
courteous, and brave; she was graceful, pleasing, and virtuous. Dr. 
Johnson is famous for this; I think it was Bulwer who said you could 
separate a paper in the "Rambler" into three distinct essays. Many 
of our writers show the same tendency, — my friend, the Professor, 
especially. Some think it is in humble imitation of Johnson, — some 
that it is for the sake of the stately sound only. I don't think they 
get to the bottom of it. It is, I suspect, an instinctive and involun- 
tary effort of the mind to present a thought or image with the three 
dimensions that belong to every solid,— an unconscious handling of 
an idea as if it had length, breadth, and thickness. It is a great deal 
easier to say this than to prove it, and a great deal easier to dispute 
it than to disprove it. But mind this: the more we observe and 
study, the wider we find the range of the automatic and instinctive 
principles in body, mind, and morals, and the narrower the limits of 
the self-determining conscious movement. 

— — I have often seen piano-forte players and singers make such 
strange motions over their instruments or song-books that I wanted 
to laugh at them. "Where did our friends pick up all these fine 
ecstatic airs?" I would say to myself. Then I would remember 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 509 

My Lady in "Marriage a la Mode," and amuse myself with thinking 
how affectation was the same thing in Hogarth's time and in our own. 
But one day I bought me a Canary-bird and hung him up in a cage 
at my window. By-and-by he found himself at home, and began to 
pipe his little tunes; and there he was, sure enough, swimming and 
waving about, with all the droopings and liftings and languishing side- 
turnings of the head that I had laughed at. And now I should like 
to ask, Who taught him all this? — and me, through him, that the 
foolish head was not the one swinging itself from side to side and 
bowing and nodding over the music, but that other which was passing 
its shallow and self-satisfied judgment on a creature made of finer 
clay than the frame which carried that same head upon its shoulders ? 

Do you want an image of the human will, or the self- 
determining principle, as compared with its prearranged and impass- 
able restrictions ? A drop of water, imprisoned in a crystal; you may 
see such a one in any mineralogical collection. One little fluid particle 
in the crystalline prism of the solid universe! 

Weaken moral obligations? — No, not weaken, but define 

them. When I preach that sermon I spoke of the other day, I shall 
have to lay down some principles not fully recognized in some of your 
text-books. 

I should have to begin with one most formidable preliminary. 
You saw an article the other day in one of the journals, perhaps, in 
which some old Doctor or other said quietly that patients were very 
apt to be fools and cowards. But a great many of the clergyman's 
patients are not only fools and cowards, but also liars. 

[Immense sensation at the table. — Sudden retirement of the 
angular -female in oxydated bombazine. Movement of adhesion — 
as they say in the Chamber of Deputies — on the part of the young 
feUow they call John. Falling of the old-gentleman-opposite's lower 
jaw — (gravitation is beginning to get the better of him) . Our land- 
lady to Benjamin Franklin, briskly, — Go to school right off, there's 
a good boy! Schoolmistress curious, — takes a quick glance at 
divinity-student. Divinity-student slightly flushed; draws his 
shoulders back a little, as if a big falsehood — or truth — had hit him 
in the forehead. Myself calm.] 

1 should not make such a speech as that, you know, without 

having pretty substantial indorsers to fall back upon, in case my 



510 AMERICAN PROSE 



credit should be disputed. Will you run up stairs, Benjamin Frank- 
lin, (for B. F. had not gone right off, of course,) and bring down a 
small volume from the left upper corner of the right-hand shelves ? 

[Look at the precious little black, ribbed-backed, clean-typed, 
vellum-papered 321110. "Desiderii Erasmi Colloquia. Amstelo- 
dami. Typis Ludovici Elzevirii. 1650." Various names written on 
title-page. Most conspicuous this: Gul. Cookeson: E. Coll. Omn. 
Anim. 1725. Oxon. 

O William Cookeson, of All-Souls College, Oxford, — then 

writing as I now write, — now in the dust, where I shall lie, — is this 
line all that remains to thee of earthly remembrance ? Thy name is 
at least once more spoken by living men; — is it a pleasure to thee? 
Thou shalt share with me my little draught of immortality, — its 
week, its month, its year, — whatever it may be, — and then we will 
go together into the solemn archives of Oblivion's Uncatalogued 
Library!] 

, If you think I have used rather strong language, I shall have 

to read something to you out of the book of this keen and witty 
scholar, — the great Erasmus, — who "laid the egg of the Reformation 
which Luther hatched." Oh, you never read his Naufragium, or 
"Shipwreck," did you? Of course not; for, if you had, I don't think 
you would have given me credit — or discredit — for entire originality 
in that speech of mine. That men are cowards in the contemplation 
of futurity he illustrates by the extraordinary antics of many on board 
the sinking vessel; that they are fools, by their praying to the sea, 
and making promises to bits of wood from the true cross, and all 
manner of similar nonsense; that they are fools, cowards, and liars 
all at once, by this story: I will put it into rough English for you. — 
"I couldn't help laughing to hear one fellow bawling out, so that he 
might be sure to be heard, a promise to Saint Christopher of Paris — 
the monstrous statue in the great church there — that he would give 
him a wax taper as big as himself. 'Mind what you promise!' said 
an acquaintance that stood near him, poking him with his elbow; 
' you couldn't pay for it, if you sold all your things at auction.' ' Hold 
your tongue, you donkey!' said the fellow, — but softly, so that Saint 
Christopher should not hear him, — ' do you think I 'm in earnest ? 
If I once get my foot on dry ground, catch me giving him so much 
as a tallow candle!'" 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 511 

Now, therefore, remembering that those who have been loudest 
in their talk about the great subject of which we were speaking have 
not necessarily been wise, brave, and true men, but, on the contrary, 
have very often been wanting in one or two or all of the qualities 
these words imply, I should expect to find a good many doctrines 
current in the schools which I should be obliged to call foolish, 
cowardly, and false. 

So you would abuse other people's beliefs, Sir, and yet not 

tell us your own creed! — said the divinity-student, coloring up with 
a spirit for which I liked him all the better. 

1 have a creed, — I replied; none better, and none shorter. 

It is told in two words, — the two first of the Paternoster. And when 
I say these words I mean them. And when I compared the human 
will to a drop in a crystal, and said I meant to define moral obligations, 
and not weaken them, this was what I intended to express: that the 
fluent, self-determining power of human beings is a very strictly 
limited agency in the universe. The chief planes of its enclosing solid 
are, of course, organization, education, condition. Organization may 
reduce the power of the will to nothing, as in some idiots; and from 
this zero the scale mounts upwards by slight gradations. Education 
is only second to nature. Imagine all the infants born this year in 
Boston and Timbuctoo to change places! Condition does less, but 
"Give me neither poverty nor riches" was the prayer of Agur, and 
with good reason. If there is any improvement in modern theology, 
it is in getting out of the region of pure abstractions and taking these 
every-day working forces into account. The great theological ques- 
tion now heaving and throbbing in the minds of Christian men is 
this: 

No, I won't talk about these things now. My remarks might be 
repeated, and it would give my friends pain to see with what personal 
incivilities I should be visited. Besides, what business has a mere 
boarder to be talking about such things at a breakfast-table ? Let 
him make puns. To be sure, he was brought up among the Christian 
fathers, and learned his alphabet out of a quarto " Concilium Triden- 
tinum." He has also heard many thousand theological lectures by 
men of various denominations; and it is not at all to the credit of 
these teachers, if he is. not fit by this time to express an opinion on 
theological matters. 



512 „ AMERICAN PROSE 



I know well enough that there are some of you who had a great 
deal rather see me stand on my head than use it for any purpose of 
thought. Does not my friend, the Professor, receive at least two 

letters a week, requesting him to | . . . , — on the 

strength of some youthful antic of his, which, no doubt, authorizes 
the intelligent constituency of autograph-hunters to address him as 
a harlequin ? 

Well, I can't be savage with you for wanting to laugh, and 

I like to make you laugh, well enough, when I can. But then observe 
this: if the sense of the ridiculous is one side of an impressible nature, 
it is very well; but if that is all there is in a man, he had better have 
been an ape at once, and so have stood at the head of his profession. 
Laughter and tears are meant to turn the wheels of the same machin- 
ery of sensibility; one is wind-power, and the other water-power; that 
is all. I have often heard the Professor talk about hysterics as being 
Nature's cleverest illustration of the reciprocal convertibility of the 
two states of which these acts are the manifestations. But you may 
see it every day in children; and if you want to choke with stifled 
tears at sight of the transition, as it shows itself in older years, go 
and see Mr. Blake play Jesse Rural. 

It is a very dangerous thing for a literary man to indulge his love 
for the ridiculous. People laugh with him just so long as he amuses 
them; but if he attempts to be serious, they must still have their 
laugh, and so they laugh at him. There is in addition, however, a 
deeper reason for this than would at first appear. Do you know that 
you feel a little superior to every man who makes you laugh, whether 
by making faces or verses ? Are you aware that you have a pleasant 
sense of patronizing him, when you condescend so far as to let him 
turn somersets, literal or literary, for your royal delight ? Now if a 
man can only be allowed to stand on a dai's, or raised platform, and 
look down on his neighbor who is exerting his talent for him, oh, it 
is all right! — first-rate performance! — and all the rest of the fine 
phrases. But if all at once the performer asks the gentleman to come 
upon the floor, and, stepping upon the platform, begins to talk down 
at him, — ah, that wasn't in the programme! 

I have never forgotten what happened when Sydney Smith — who, 
as everybody knows, was an exceedingly sensible man, and a gentle- 
man, every inch of him — ventured to preach a sermon on the Duties 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 513 

of Royalty. The " Quarterly," " so savage and tartarly," came down 
upon him in the most contemptuous style, as "a joker of jokes," a 
"diner-out of the first water," in one of his own phrases; sneering at 
him, insulting him, as nothing but a toady of a court, sneaking behind 
the anonymous, would ever have been mean enough to do to a man 
of his position and genius, or to any decent person even. — If I were 
giving advice to a young fellow of talent, with two or three facets to 
his mind, I would tell him by all means to keep his wit in the back- 
ground until after he had made a reputation by his more solid 
qualities. And so to an actor : Hamlet first, and Bob Logic afterwards, 
if you like; but don't think, as they say poor Liston used to, that 
people will be ready to allow that you can do anything great with 
Macbeth's dagger after flourishing about with Paul Pry's umbrella. 
Do you know, too, that the majority of men look upon all who chal- 
lenge their attention,- — for a while, at least, — as beggars, and 
nuisances? They always try to get off as cheaply as they can; and 
the cheapest of all things they can give a literary man — pardon the 
forlorn pleasantry! — is the funny-bone. That is all very well so far 
as it goes, but satisfies no man, and makes a good many angry, as I 
told you on a former occasion. 

Oh, indeed, no! — I am not ashamed to make you laugh, 

occasionally. I think I could read you something I have in my desk 
which would probably make you smile. Perhaps I will read it one 
of these days, if you are patient with me when I am sentimental and 
reflective; not just now. The ludicrous has its place in the universe; 
it is not a human invention, but one of the Divine ideas, illustrated 
in the practical jokes of kittens and monkeys long before Aristophanes 
or Shakspeare. How curious it is that we always consider solemnity 
and the absence of all gay surprises and encounter of wits as essential 
to the idea of the future life of those whom we thus deprive of half 
their faculties and then call blessed! There are not a few who, even 
in this life, seem to be preparing themselves for that smileless eternity 
to which they look forward, by banishing all gayety from their hearts 
and all joyousness from their countenances. I meet one such in the 
street not unfrequently, a person of intelligence and education, but 
who gives me (and all that he passes) such a rayless and chilling look 
of recognition, — something as if he were one of Heaven's assessors, 
come down to "doom" every acquaintance he met, — that I have 



514 AMERICAN PROSE 



sometimes begun to sneeze on the spot, and gone home with a violent 
cold, dating from that instant. I don't doubt he would cut his kit- 
ten's tail off, if he caught her playing with it. Please tell me, who 
taught her to play with it ? 

No, no! — give me a chance to talk to you, my fellow-boarders, 
and you need not be afraid that I shall have any scruples about enter- 
taining you, if I can do it, as well as giving you some of my serious 
thoughts, and perhaps my sadder fancies. I know nothing in English 
or any other literature more admirable than that sentiment of Sir 
Thomas Browne, "Every man truly lives, so long as he acts 

HIS NATURE, OR SOME WAY MAKES GOOD THE FACULTIES OF HIMSELF." 

I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, 
as in what direction we are moving: To reach the port of heaven, we 
must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it, — but we 
must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor. There is one very sad 
thing in old friendships, to every mind that is really moving onward. 
It is this: that one cannot help using his early friends as the seaman 
uses the log, to mark his progress. Every now and then we throw 
an old schoolmate over the stern with a string of thought tied to him, 
and look — I am afraid with a kind of luxurious and sanctimonious 
compassion — to see the rate at which the string reels off, while he 
lies there bobbing up and down, poor fellow! and we are dashing along 
with the white foam and bright sparkle at our bows; — the ruffled 
bosom of prosperity and progress, with a sprig of diamonds stuck in it! 
But this is only the sentimental side of the matter; for grow we must, 
if we outgrow all that we love. 

Don't misunderstand that metaphor of heaving the log, I beg 
you. It is merely a smart way of saying that we cannot avoid meas- 
uring our rate of movement by those with whom we have long been 
in the habit of comparing ourselves; and when they once become 
stationary, we can get our reckoning from them with painful accuracy. 
We see just what we were when they were our peers, and can strike 
the balance between that and whatever we may feel ourselves to be 
now. No doubt we may sometimes be mistaken. If we change our 
last simile to that very old and familiar one of a fleet leaving the 
harbor and sailing in company for some distant region, we can get 
what we want out of it. There is one of our companions; — her 
streamers were torn into rags before she had got into the open sea, 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 515 

then by and by her sails blew out of the ropes one after another, the 
waves swept her deck, and as night came on we left her a seeming 
wreck, as we flew under our pyramid of canvas. But lo! at dawn she 
is still in sight, — it may be in advance of us. Some deep ocean-current 
has been moving her on, strong, but silent, — yes, stronger than these 
noisy winds that puff our sails until they are swollen as the cheeks of 
jubilant cherubim. And when at last the black steam-tug with the 
skeleton arms, which comes out of the mist sooner or later and takes 
us all in tow, grapples her and goes off panting and groaning with her, 
it is to that harbor where all wrecks are refitted, and where, alas! we, 
towering in our pride, may never come. 

So you will not think I mean to speak lightly of old friendships, 
because we cannot help instituting comparisons between our present 
and former selves by the aid of those who were what we were, but 
are not what we are. Nothing strikes one more, in the race of life, 
than to see how many give out in the first half of the course. "Com- 
mencement day" always reminds me of the start for the "Derby," 
when the beautiful high-bred three-year olds of the season are brought 
up for trial. That day is the start, and life is the race. Here we 
are at Cambridge, and a class is just "graduating." Poor Harry! 
he was to have been there too, but he has paid forfeit; step out here 
into the grass back of the church; ah, there it is: — 

"HUNC LAPIDEM POSUERUNT 
SOCII MCERENTES." 

But this is the start, and here they are, — coats bright as silk, and 
manes as smooth as eau lustrale can make them. Some of the best 
of the colts are pranced round, a few minutes each, to show their 
paces. What is that old gentleman crying about ? and the old lady 
by him, and the three girls, what are they all covering their eyes for ? 
Oh, that is their colt which has just been trotted up on the stage. 
Do they really think those little thin legs can do anything in such a 
slashing sweepstakes as is coming off in these next forty years ? Oh, 
this terrible gift of second-sight that comes to some of us when we 
begin to look through the silvered rings of the arcus senilis! 

Ten years gone. First turn in the race. A few broken down; 
two or three bolted. Several show in advance of the ruck. Cassock, 
a black colt, seems to be ahead of the rest; those black colts commonly 



516 AMERICAN PROSE 



get the start, I have noticed, of the others, in the first quarter. 
Meteor has pulled up. 

Twenty years. Second corner turned. Cassock has dropped from 
the front, and Judex, an iron-gray, has the lead. But look! how they 
have thinned out! Down flat, — five, — six, — how many? They lie 
still enough! they will not get up again in this race, be very sure! 
And the rest of them, what a "tailing off"! Anybody can see who 
is going to win, — perhaps. 

Thirty years. Third corner turned. Dives, bright sorrel, ridden 
by the fellow in a yellow jacket, begins to make play fast; is getting 
to be the favourite with many. But who is that other one that has 
been lengthening his stride from the first, and now shows close up 
to the front? Don't you remember the quiet brown colt Asteroid, 
with the star in his forehead ? That is he; he is one of the sort that 
lasts; look out for him! The black "colt," as we used to call him, 
is in the background, taking it easily in a gentle trot. There is one 
they used to call the Filly, on account of a certain feminine air he 
had; well up, you see; the Filly is not to be despised, my boy! 

Forty years. More dropping off, — but places much as before. 

Fifty years. Race over. All that are on the course are coming 
in at a walk; no more running. Who is ahead? Ahead? What! 
and the winning-post a slab of white or gray* stone standing out from 
that turf where there is no more jockeying or straining for victory! 
Well, the world marks their places in its betting-book; but be sure 
that these matter very little, if they have run as well as they knew how ! 

Did I not say to you a little while ago that the universe swam 

in an ocean of similitudes and analogies ? I will not quote Cowley, 
or Burns, or Wordsworth, just now, to show you what thoughts were 
suggested to them by the simplest natural objects, such as a flower 
or a leaf; but I will read you a few lines, if you do not object, suggested 
by looking at a section of one of those chambered shells to which is 
given the name of Pearly Nautilus. We need not trouble ourselves 
about the distinction between this and the Paper Nautilus, the 
Argonauta of the ancients. The name applied to both shows that 
each has long been compared to a ship, as you may see more fully 
in Webster's Dictionary, or the "Encyclopedia," to which he refers. 
If you will look into Roget's Bridgewater Treatise, you will find a 
figure of one of these shells, and a section of it. The last will show 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 517 

you the series of enlarging compartments successively dwelt in by the 
animal that inhabits the shell, which is built in a widening spiral. 
Can you find no lesson in this ? 

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl! 

And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap forlorn! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy low- vaulted past! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! 



518 AMERICAN PROSE 



V. 

A Lyric conception — my friend, the Poet, said — hits me like a 
bullet in the forehead. I have often had the blood drop from my 
cheeks when it struck, and felt that I turned as white as death. Then 
comes a creeping as of centipedes running down the spine, — then a 
gasp and a great jump of the heart, — then a sudden flush and a beating 
in the vessels of the head, — then a long sigh, — and the poem is written. 

It is an impromptu, I suppose, then, if you write it so suddenly, — 
I replied. 

No, — said he, — far from it. I said written, but I did not say 
copied. Every such poem has a soul and a body, and it is the body 
of it, or the copy, that men read and publishers pay for. The soul 
of it is born in an instant in the poet's soul. It comes to him a 
thought, tangled in the meshes of a few sweet words, — words that have 
loved each other from the cradle of the language, but have never been 
wedded until now. Whether it will ever fully embody itself in a 
bridal train of a dozen stanzas or not is uncertain; but it exists 
potentially from the instant that the poet turns pale with it. It is 
enough to stun and scare anybody, to have a hot thought come 
crashing into his brain, and ploughing up those parallel ruts where 
the wagon trains of common ideas were jogging along in their regular 
sequences of association. No wonder the ancients made the poetical 
impulse wholly external. M^vtv aei8e ©ea Goddess, — Muse, — divine 
afflatus, — something outside always. / never wrote any verses 
worth reading. I can't. I am too stupid. If I ever copied any that 
were worth reading, I was only a medium. 

[I was talking all this time to our boarders, you understand, — tell- 
ing them what this poet told me. The company listened rather atten- 
tively, I thought, considering the literary character of the remarks.] 

The old gentleman opposite all at once asked me if I ever read 
anything better than Pope's "Essay on Man" ? Had I ever perused 
McFingal ? He was fond of poetry when he was a boy, — his mother 
taught him to say many little pieces, — he remembered one beautiful 
hymn; — and the old gentleman began, in a clear, loud voice, for his 

years, — 

"The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 
And spangled heavens,"— — 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 519 

He stopped, as if startled by our silence, and a faint flush ran up 
beneath the thin white hairs that fell upon his cheek. As I looked 
round, I was reminded of a show I once saw at the Museum, — the 
Sleeping Beauty, I think they called it. The old man's sudden break- 
ing out in this way turned every face towards him, and each kept his 
posture as if changed to stone. Our Celtic Bridget, or Biddy, is not 
a foolish fat scullion to burst out crying for a sentiment. She is of 
the serviceable, red-handed, broad-and-high-shouldered type; one 
of those importer! female servants who are known in public by their 
amorphous style of person, their stoop forwards, and a headlong and 
as it were precipitous walk, — the waist plunging downward into the 
rocking pelvis at every heavy footfall. Bridget, constituted for 
action, not for emotion, was about to deposit a plate heaped with 
something upon the table, when I saw the coarse arm stretched by 
my shoulder arrested, — motionless as the arm of a terra-cotta caryatid; 
she couldn't set the plate down while the old gentleman was speaking ! 

He was quite silent after this, still wearing the slight flush on his 
cheek. Don't ever think the poetry is dead in an old man because 
his forehead is wrinkled, or that his manhood has left him when his 
hand trembles! If they ever were there, they are there still! 

By and by we got talking again. Does a poet love the verses 

written through him, do you think, Sir ? — said the divinity-student. 

So long as they are warm from his mind, carry any of his animal 
heat about them, i" know he loves them, — I answered. When they 
have had time to cool, he is more indifferent. 

A good deal as it is with buckwheat cakes, — said the young 
fellow whom they call John. 

The last words, only, reached the ear of the economically organ- 
ized female in black bombazine. Buckwheat is skerce and high, — 

she remarked. [Must be a poor relation sponging on our landlady, — 
pays nothing, — so she must stand by the guns and be ready to repel 
boarders.] 

I liked the turn the conversation had taken, for I had some things 
I wanted to say, and so, after waiting a minute, I began again. — 
I don't think the poems I read you sometimes can be fairly appre- 
ciated given to you as they are in the green state. 

You don't know what I mean by the green state? Well, 

then, I will tell you. Certain things are good for nothing until they 



520 AMERICAN PROSE 



have been kept a long while; and some are good for nothing until they 
have been long kept and used. Of the first, wine is the illustrious and 
immortal example. Of those which must be kept and used I will 
name three, — meerschaum pipes, violins, and poems. The meer- 
schaum is but a poor affair until it has burned a thousand offerings 
to the cloud-compelling deities. It comes to us without complexion 
or flavor, — born of the sea-foam, like Aphrodite, but colorless as 
pallida Mors herself. The fire is lighted in its central shrine, and 
gradually the juices which the broad leaves of the Great Vegetable 
had sucked up from an acre and curdled into a drachm are diffused 
through its thirsting pores. First a discoloration, then a stain, and 
at last a rich, glowing, umber tint spreading over the whole surface. 
Nature true to her old brown autumnal hue, you see, — as true in the 
fire of the meerschaum as in the sunshine of October! And then the 
cumulative wealth of its fragrant reminiscences! he who inhales its 
vapors takes a thousand whiffs in a single breath; and one cannot 
touch it without awakening the old joys that hang around it as the 
smell of flowers clings to the dresses of the daughters of the house of 
Farina! 

[Don't think I use a meerschaum myself, for / do not, though I 
have owned a calumet since my childhood, which from a naked Pict 
(of the Mohawk species) my grandsire won, together with a toma- 
hawk and beaded knife-sheath; paying for the lot with a bullet-mark 
on his right cheek. On the maternal side I inherit the loveliest silver- 
mounted tobacco-stopper you ever saw. It is a little box-wood 
Triton, carved with charming liveliness and truth; I have often com- 
pared it to a figure in Raphael's "Triumph of Galatea." It came to 
me in an ancient shagreen case, — how old it is I do not know, — but 
it must have been made since Sir Walter Raleigh's time. If you are 
curious, you shall see it any day. Neither will I pretend that I am 
so unused to the more perishable smoking contrivance, that a few 
whiffs would make me feel as if I lay in a ground-swell on the Bay of 
Biscay. I am not unacquainted with that fusiform, spiral-wound 
bundle of chopped stems and miscellaneous incombustibles, the cigar, 
so called, of the shops, — which to "draw" asks the suction-power of a 
nursling infant Hercules, and to relish, the leathery palate of an old 
Silenus. I do not advise you, young man, even if my illustration 
strike your fancy, to consecrate the flower of your life to painting the 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 52 1 

bowl of a pipe, for, let me assure you, the stain of a reverie-breeding 
narcotic may strike deeper than you think for. I have seen the green 
leaf of early promise grow brown before its time under such Nicotian 
regimen, and thought the umbered meerschaum was dearly bought 
at the cost of a brain enfeebled and a will enslaved.] 

Violins, too, — the sweet old Amati! — the divine Stradivarius! 
Played on by ancient maestros until the bow-hand lost its power and 
the flying fingers stiffened. Bequeathed to the passionate young 
enthusiast, who made it whisper his hidden love, and cry his inarticu- 
late longings, and scream his untold agonies, and wail his monotonous 
despair. Passed from his dying hand to the cold virtuoso, who let it 
slumber in its case for a generation, till, when his hoard was broken 
up, it came forth once more and rode the stormy symphonies of royal 
orchestras, beneath the rushing bow of their lord and leader. Into 
lonely prisons with improvident artists; into convents from which 
arose, day and night, the holy hymns with which its tones were 
blended; and back again to orgies in which it learned to howl and 
laugh as if a legion of devils were shut up in it; then again to the 
gentle dilettante who calmed it down with easy melodies until it 
answered him softly as in the days of the old maestros. And so given 
into our hands, its pores all full of music; stained, like the meer- 
schaum, through and through, with the concentrated hue and sweet- 
ness of all the harmonies which have kindled and faded on its strings. 

Now I tell you a poem must be kept and used, like a meerschaum, 
or a violin. A poem is just as porous as the meerschaum; — the more 
porous it is, the better. I mean to say that a genuine poem is capable 
of absorbing an indefinite amount of the essence of our own humanity, 
— its tenderness, its heroism, its regrets, its aspirations, so as to be 
gradually stained through with a divine secondary color derived from 
ourselves. So you see it must take time to bring the sentiment of a 
poem into harmony with our nature, by staining ourselves through 
every thought and image our being can penetrate. 

Then again as to the mere music of a new poem; why, who can 
expect anything more from that than from the music of a violin fresh 
from the maker's hands ? Now you know very well that there are 
no less than fifty-eight different pieces in a violin. These pieces are 
strangers to each other, and it takes a century, more or less, to 
make them thoroughly acquainted. At last they learn to vibrate in 



522 AMERICAN PROSE 



harmony, and the instrument becomes an organic whole, as if it were a 
great seed-capsule which had grown from a garden-bed in Cremona, 
or elsewhere. Besides, the wood is juicy and full of sap for fifty years 
or so, but at the end of fifty or a hundred more gets tolerably dry and 
comparatively resonant. 

Don't you see that all this is just as true of a poem ? Counting 
each word as a piece, there are more pieces in an average copy of 
verses than in a violin. The poet has forced all these words together, 
and fastened them, and they don't understand it at first. But let 
the poem be repeated aloud and murmured over in the mind's muffled 
whisper often enough, and at length the parts become knit together 
in such absolute solidarity that you could not change a syllable with- 
out the whole world's crying out against you for meddling with the 
harmonious fabric. Observe, too, how the drying process takes place 
in the stuff of a poem just as in that of a violin. Here is a Tyrolese 
fiddle that is just coming to its hundredth birthday,— (Pedro Klauss, 
Tyroli, fecit, 1760,) — the sap is pretty well out of it. And here is the 
song of an old poet whom Neaera cheated: — 

"Nox erat, et ccelo fulgebat Luna sereno 
Inter minora sidera, 
Cum tu magnorum numen laesura deorum 
In verba jurabas mea." 

Don't you perceive the sonorousness of these old dead Latin phrases ? 
Now I tell you that every word fresh from the dictionary brings with 
it a certain succulence; and though I cannot expect the sheets of the 
"Pactolian," in which, as I told you, I sometimes print my verses, 
to get so dry as the crisp papyrus that held those words of Horatius 
Flaccus, yet you may be sure, that, while the sheets are damp, and 
while the lines hold their sap, you can't fairly judge of my perform- 
ances, and that, if made of the true stuff, they will ring better after 
a while. 

[There was silence for a brief space, after my somewhat elaborate 
exposition of these self-evident analogies. Presently a person turned 
towards me — I do not choose to designate the individual — and said 
that he rather expected my pieces had given pretty good "sahtisfahc- 
tion." — I had, up to this moment, considered this complimentary 
phrase as sacred to the use of secretaries of lyceums, and, as it has 
been usually accompanied by a small pecuniary testimonial, have 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 523 

acquired a certain relish for this moderately tepid and unstimulating 
expression of enthusiasm. But as a reward for gratuitous services, 
I confess I thought it a little below that blood-heat standard which 
a man's breath ought to have, whether silent, or vocal and articulate. 
I waited for a favorable opportunity, however, before making the 
remarks which follow.] 

There are single expressions, as I have told you already, that 

fix a man's position for you before you have done shaking hands with 
him. Allow me to expand a little. There are several things, very 
slight in themselves, yet implying other things not so unimportant. 
Thus, your French servant has devalise your premises and got caught. 
Excusez, says the sergent-de-ville, as he politely relieves him of his upper 
garments and displays his bust in the full daylight. Good shoulders 
enough, — a little marked, — traces of smallpox, perhaps, — but white. 
* * * Cracl from the sergent-de-ville' s broad palm on the white 
shoulder! Now look! Vogue la galere! Out comes the big red V — 
mark of the hot iron; — he had blistered it out pretty nearly, — hadn't 
he? — the old rascal VOLEUR, branded in the galleys at Marseilles! 
[Don't! What if he has got something like this? — nobody supposes 
I invented such a story.] 

My man John, who used to drive two of those six equine females 
which I told you I had owned, — for, look you, my friends, simple 
though I stand here, I am one that has been driven in his "kerridge," 
— not using that term, as liberal shepherds do, for any battered old 
shabby-genteel go-cart which has more than one wheel, but meaning 
thereby a four-wheeled vehicle with a pole, — my man John, I say, 
was a retired soldier. He retired unostentatiously, as many of Her 
Majesty's modest servants have done before and since. John told 
me, that when an officer thinks he recognizes one of these retiring 
heroes, and would know if he has really been in the service, that he 
may restore him, if possible, to a grateful country, he comes suddenly 
upon him, and says, sharply, "Strap!" If he has ever worn the 
shoulder-strap, he has learned the reprimand for its ill adjustment. 
The old word of command flashes through his muscles, and his hand 
goes up in an instant to the place where the strap used to be. 

[I was all the time preparing for my grand coup, you understand, 
but I saw they were not quite ready for it, and so continued, — always 
in illustration of the general principle I had laid down.] 



524 AMERICAN PROSE 



Yes, odd things come out in ways that nobody thinks of. There 
was a legend, that, when the Danish pirates made descents upon the 
English coast, they caught a few Tartars occasionally, in the shape 
of Saxons, who would not let them go,— on the contrary, insisted on 
their staying, and, to make sure of it, treated them as Apollo treated 
Marsyas, or as Bartholinus has treated a fellow-creature in his title- 
page, and, having divested them of the one essential and perfectly 
fitting garment, indispensable in the mildest climates, nailed the same 
on the church-door as we do the banns of marriage, in terrorem. 

[There was a laugh at this among some of the young folks; but 
as I looked at our landlady, I saw that "the water stood in her eyes," 
as it did in Christiana's when the interpreter asked her about the 
spider, and I fancied, but wasn't quite sure, that the schoolmistress 
blushed, as Mercy did in the same conversation, as you remember.] 

That sounds like a cock-and-bull-story, — said the young fellow 
whom they call John. I abstained from making Hamlet's remark to 
Horatio, and continued. 

Not long since, the church-wardens were repairing and beautify- 
ing an old Saxon church in a certain English village, and among other 
things thought the doors should be attended to. One of them par- 
ticularly, the front-door, looked very badly, crusted, as it were, and 
as if it would be all the better for scraping. There happened to be a 
microscopist in the village who had heard the old pirate story, and 
he took it into his head to examine the crust on this door. There was 
no mistake about it; it was a genuine historical document, of the 
Ziska drum-head pattern, — a real cutis humana, stripped from some 
old Scandinavian filibuster, and the legend was true. 

My friend, the Professor, settled an important historical and 
financial question once by the aid of an exceedingly minute fragment 
of a similar document. Behind the pane of plate-glass which bore 
his name and title burned a modest lamp, signifying to the passers-by 
that at all hours of the night the slightest favors (or fevers) were 
welcome. A youth who had freely partaken of the cup which cheers 
and likewise inebriates, following a moth-like impulse very natural 
under the circumstances, dashed his fist at the light and quenched the 
meek luminary, — breaking through the plate-glass, of course, to 
reach it. Now I don't want to go into minutice at table, you know, 
but a naked hand can no more go through a pane of thick glass with- 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 525 

out leaving some of its cuticle, to say the least, behind it, than a 
butterfly can go through a sausage-machine without looking the 
worse for it. The Professor gathered up the fragments of glass, and 
with them certain very minute but entirely satisfactory documents 
which would have identified and hanged any rogue in Christendom 
who had parted with them. — The historical question, Who did it? 
and the financial question, Who paid for it? were both settled before 
the new lamp was lighted the next evening. 

You see, my friends, what immense conclusions, touching our 
lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor, may be reached by means 
of very insignificant premises. This is eminently true of manners 
and forms of speech; a movement or a phrase often tells you all you 
want to know about a person. Thus, "How's your health?" (com- 
monly pronounced hadlth) — instead of, How do you do ? or, How are 
you ? Or calling your little dark entry a "hall," and your old rickety 
one-horse wagon a "kerridge." Or telling a person who has been 
trying to please you that he has given you pretty good "sahtisfahc- 
tion." Or saying that you "remember of" such a thing, or that you 
have been "stoppin"' at Deacon Somebody's, — and other such 
expressions. One of my friends had a little marble statuette of Cupid 
in the parlor of his country-house, — bow, arrows, wings, and all com- 
plete. A visitor, indigenous to the region, looking pensively at the 
figure, asked the lady of the house "if that was a statoo of her deceased 
infant ? " What a delicious, though somewhat voluminous biography, 
social, educational, and aesthetic in that brief question! 

[Please observe with what Machiavellian astuteness I smuggled 
in the particular offence which it was my object to hold up to my 
fellow-boarders, without too personal an attack on the individual at 
whose door it lay.] 

That was an exceedingly dull person who made the remark, Ex 
pede Herculem. He might as well have said, "From a peck of apples 
you may judge of the barrel." Ex pede, to be sure! Read, instead, 
Ex ungue minimi digiti pedis, Herculem, ejusque patrem, matrem, avos 
et proavos, filios, nepotes et pronepotes! Talk to me about your 80s 
ttov o-Tco ! Tell me about Cuvier's getting up a megatherium from a 
tooth, or Agassiz's drawing a portrait of an undiscovered fish from a 
single scale! As the "O" revealed Giotto, — as the one word "moi" 
betrayed the Stratford-atte-Bowe-taught Anglais, — so all a man's 



526 AMERICAN PROSE 



antecedents and possibilities are summed up in a single utterance 
which gives at once the gauge of his education and his mental organi- 
zation. 

Possibilities, Sir? — said the divinity-student; can't a man who 
says Haow ? arrive at distinction ? 

Sir, — I replied, — in a republic all things are possible. But the 
man with a future has almost of necessity sense enough to see that any 
odious trick of speech or manners must be got rid of. Doesn't Sydney 
Smith say that a public man in England never gets over a false quan- 
tity uttered in early life ? Our public men are in little danger of this 
fatal misstep, as few of them are in the habit of introducing Latin into 
their speeches, — for good and sufficient reasons. But they are bound 
to speak decent English, — unless, indeed, they are rough old cam- 
paigners, like General Jackson or General Taylor; in which case, a 
few scars on Priscian's head are pardoned to old fellows who have 
quite as many on their own, and a constituency of thirty empires is 
not at all particular, provided they do not swear in their Presidential 
Messages. 

However, it is not for me to talk. I have made mistakes enough 
in conversation and print. I never find them out until they are 
stereotyped, and then I think they rarely escape me. I have no 
doubt I shall make half a dozen slips before this breakfast is over, 
and remember them all before another. How one does tremble with 
rage at his own intense momentary stupidity about things he knows 
perfectly well, and to think how he lays himself open to the imperti- 
nences of the captatores verborum, those useful but humble scavengers 
of the language, whose business it is to pick up what might offend or 
injure, and remove it, hugging and feeding on it as they go! I don't 
want to speak too slightingly of these verbal critics; — how can I, who 
am so fond of talking about errors and vulgarisms of speech ? Only 
there is a difference between those clerical blunders which almost 
ever}'- man commits, knowing better, and that habitual grossness or 
meanness of speech which is unendurable to educated persons, from 
anybody that wears silk or broadcloth. 

[I write down the above remarks this morning, January 26th, 
making this record of the date that nobody may think it was written 
in wrath, on account of any particular grievance suffered from the 
invasion of any individual scarabtzus grammaticus.] 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 527 

1 wonder if anybody ever finds fault with anything I say at 

this table when it is repeated ? I hope they do, I am sure. I should 
be very certain that I had said nothing of much significance, if they 
did not. 

Did you never, in walking in the fields, come across a large flat 
stone, which had lain, nobody knows how long, just where you found 
it, with the grass forming a little hedge, as it were, all round it, close 
to its edges, — and have you not, in obedience to a kind of feeling that 
told you it had been lying there long enough, insinuated your stick 
or your foot or your fingers under its edge and turned it over as a 
housewife turns a cake, when she says to herself, "It's done brown 
enough by this time " ? What an odd revelation, and what an unfore- 
seen and unpleasant surprise to a small community, the very existence 
of which you had not suspected, until the sudden dismay and scatter- 
ing among its members produced by your turning the old stone over! 
Blades of grass flattened down, colorless, matted together, as if they 
had been bleached and ironed; hideous crawling creatures, some of 
them coleopterous or horny-shelled, — turtle-bugs one wants to call 
them; some of them softer, but cunningly spread out and compressed 
like Lepine watches; (Nature never loses a crack or a crevice, mind 
you, or a joint in a tavern bedstead, but she always has one of her flat- 
pattern live timekeepers to slide into it;) black, glossy crickets, with 
their long filaments sticking out like the whips of four-horse stage- 
coaches; motionless, slug-like creatures, young larvas, perhaps more 
horrible in their pulpy stillness than even in the infernal wriggle of 
maturity! But no sooner is the stone turned and the wholesome light 
of day let upon this compressed and blinded community of creeping 
things, than all of them which enjoy the luxury of legs — and some of 
them have a good many — rush round wildly, butting each other and 
everything in their way, and end in a general stampede for under- 
ground retreats from the region poisoned by sunshine. Next year you 
will find the grass growing tall and green where the stone lay; the 
ground-bird builds her nest where the beetle had his hole; the dande- 
lion and the buttercup are growing there, and the broad fans of insect- 
angels open and shut over their golden disks, as the rhythmic waves 
of blissful consciousness pulsate through their glorified being. 

The young fellow whom they call John saw fit to say, in his 

very familiar way, — at which I do not choose to take offence, but 



528 AMERICAN PROSE 



which I sometimes think it necessary to repress, — that I was coming 
it rather strong on the butterflies. 

No, I replied; there is meaning in each of those images, — the 
butterfly as well as the others. The stone is ancient error. The grass 
is human nature borne down and bleached of all its colour by it. The 
shapes which are found beneath are the crafty beings that thrive in 
darkness, and the weaker organisms kept helpless by it. He who 
turns the stone over is whosoever puts the staff of truth to the old 
lying incubus, no matter whether he do it with a serious face or a 
laughing one. The next year stands for the coming time. Then shall 
the nature which had lain blanched and broken rise in its full stature 
and native hues in the sunshine. Then shall God's minstrels build 
their nests in the hearts of a newborn humanity. Then shall beauty — 
Divinity taking outlines and color — light upon the souls of men as the 
butterfly, image of the beatified spirit rising from the dust, soars 
from the shell that held a poor grub, which would never have found 
wings, had not the stone been lifted. 

You never need think you can turn over any old falsehood without 
a terrible squirming and scattering of the horrid little population that 
dwells under it. 

Every real thought on every real subject knocks the wind 

out of somebody or other. As soon as his breath comes back, he very 
probably begins to expend it in hard words. These are the best 
evidence a man can have that he has said something it was time to 
say. Dr. Johnson was disappointed in the effect of one of his pamph- 
lets. "I think I have not been attacked enough for it," he said; — 
"attack is the reaction; I never think I have hit hard unless it 
rebounds." 

If a fellow attacked my opinions in print, would I reply? 

Not I. Do you think I don't understand what my friend, the Pro- 
fessor, long ago called the hydrostatic paradox of controversy ? 

Don't know what that means ? — Well, I will tell you. You know, 
that, if you had a bent tube, one arm of which was of the size of a 
pipe-stem, and the other big enough to hold the ocean, water would 
stand at the same height' in one as in the other. Controversy equal- 
izes fools and wise men in the same way, — and the fools know it. 

No, but I often read what they say about other people. There 
are about a dozen phrases which all come tumbling along together, 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 529 

like the tongs, and the shovel, and the poker, and the brush, and the 
bellows, in one of those domestic avalanches that everybody knows. 
If you get one, you get the whole lot. 

What are they ? — Oh, that depends a good deal on latitude and 
longitude. Epithets follow the isothermal lines pretty accurately. 
Grouping them in two families, one finds himself a clever, genial, 
witty, wise, brilliant, sparkling, thoughtful, distinguished, celebrated, 
illustrious scholar and perfect gentleman, and first writer of the age; 
or a dull, foolish, wicked, pert, shallow, ignorant, insolent, traitorous, 
black-hearted outcast, and disgrace to civilization. 

What do I think determines the set of phrases a man gets? — 
Well, I should say a set of influences something like these: — 1st. Rela- 
tionships, political, religious, social, domestic. 2d. Oysters; in the 
form of suppers given to gentlemen connected with criticism. I believe 
in the school, the college, and the clergy; but my sovereign logic, for 
regulating public opinion — which means commonly the opinion of 
half a dozen of the critical gentry — is the following: Major proposi- 
tion. Oysters au naturel. Minor proposition. The same "scal- 
loped." Conclusion. That (here insert entertainer's name) is 

clever, witty, wise, brilliant, — and the rest. 

No, it isn't exactly bribery. One man has oysters, and 

another epithets. It is an exchange of hospitalities; one gives a 
"spread" on linen, and the other on paper, — that is all. Don't you 
think you and I should be apt to do just so, if we were in the critical 
line ? I am sure I couldn't resist the softening influences of hospi- 
tality. I don't like to dine out, you know, — I dine so well at our 
own table, [our landlady looked radiant,] and the company is so 
pleasant [a rustling movement of satisfaction among the boarders]; 
but if I did partake of a man's salt, with such additions as that article 
of food requires to make it palatable, I could never abuse him, and 
if I had to speak of him, I suppose I should hang my set of jingling 
epithets round him like a string of sleigh-bells. Good feeling helps 
society to make liars of most of us, — not absolute liars, but such care- 
less handlers of truth that its sharp corners get terrible rounded. 
I love truth as chief est among the virtues; I trust it runs in my blood; 
but I would never be a critic, because I know I could not always tell 
it. I might write a criticism of a book that happened to please me; 
that is another matter. 



530 AMERICAN PROSE 



Listen, Benjamin Franklin! This is for you, and such others 

of tender age as you may tell it to. 

When we are as yet small children, long before the time when those 
two grown ladies offer us the choice of Hercules, there comes up to 
us a youthful angel, holding in his right hand cubes like dice, and 
in his left spheres like marbles. The cubes are of stainless ivory, 
and oh each is written in letters of gold — Truth. The spheres are 
veined and streaked and spotted beneath, with a dark crimson flush 
above, where the light falls on them, and in a certain aspect you can 
make out upon every one of them the three letters L, I, E. The 
child to whom they are offered very probably clutches at both. The 
spheres are the most convenient things in the world; they roll with 
the least possible impulse just where the child would have them. 
The cubes will not roll at all; they have a great talent for standing 
still, and always keep right side up. But very soon the young 
philosopher finds that things, which roll so easily are very apt to roll 
into the wrong corner, and to get out of his way when he most wants 
them, while he always knows where to find the others, which stay 
where they are left. Thus he learns — thus we learn — to drop the 
streaked and speckled globes of falsehood and to hold fast the white 
angular blocks of truth. But then comes Timidity, and after her 
Good-nature, and last of all Polite-behavior, all insisting that truth 
must roll, or nobody can do anything with it; and so the first with her 
coarse rasp, and the second with her broad file, and the third with her 
silken sleeve, do so round off and smooth and polish the snow-white 
cubes of truth, that, when they have got a little dingy by use, it 
becomes hard to tell them from the rolling spheres of falsehood. 

The schoolmistress was polite enough to say that she was pleased 
with this, and that she would read it to her little flock the next day. 
But she should tell the children, she said, that there were better 
reasons for truth than could be found in mere experience of its con- 
venience and the inconvenience of lying. 

Yes, — I said, — but education always begins through the senses, 
and works up to the idea of absolute right and wrong. The first thing 
the child has to learn about this matter is, that lying is unprofitable, — 
afterwards, that it is against the peace and dignity of the universe. 

Do I think that the particular form of lying often seen in 

newspapers, under the title, "From our Foreign Correspondent," 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 531 

does any harm? — Why, no, — I don't know that it does. I suppose 
it doesn't really deceive people any more than the "Arabian Nights" 
or "Gulliver's Travels" do. Sometimes the writers compile too care- 
lessly, though, and mix up facts out of geographies, and stories out of 
the penny papers, so as to mislead those who are desirous of informa- 
tion. I cut a piece out of one of the papers, the other day, which 
contains a number of improbabilities, and, I suspect, misstatements. 

I will send up and get it for you, if you would like to hear it. Ah, 

this is it; it is headed 

"Our Sumatra Correspondence 

"This island is now the property of the Stamford family, — having 

been won, it is said, in a raffle, by Sir Stamford, during the 

stock-gambling mania of the South-Sea Scheme. The history of this 
gentleman may be found in an interesting series of questions (unfor- 
tunately not yet answered) contained in the 'Notes and Queries.' 
This island is entirely surrounded by the ocean, which here contains 
a large amount of saline substance, crystallizing in cubes remarkable 
for their symmetry, and frequently displays on its surface, during 
calm weather, the rainbow tints of the celebrated South-Sea bubbles. 
The summers are oppressively hot, and the winters very probably 
cold; but this fact cannot be ascertained precisely, as, for some peculiar 
reason, the mercury in these latitudes never shrinks, as in more north- 
ern regions, and thus the thermometer is rendered useless in winter. 

"The principal vegetable productions of the island are the pepper 
tree and the bread-fruit tree. Pepper being very abundantly pro- 
duced, a benevolent society was organized in London during the last 
century for supplying the natives with vinegar and oysters, as an 
addition to that delightful condiment. [Note received from Dr. D. P.] 
It is said, however, that, as the oysters were of the kind called natives 
in England, the natives of Sumatra, in obedience to a natural instinct, 
refused to touch them, and confined themselves entirely to the crew 
of the vessel in which they were brought over. This information was 
received from one of the oldest inhabitants, a native himself, and 
exceedingly fond of missionaries. He is said also to be very skilful 
in the cuisine peculiar to the island. 

"During the season of gathering the pepper, the persons employed 
are subject to various incommodities, the chief of which is violent 



532 AMERICAN PROSE 



and long-continued sternutation, or sneezing. Such is the vehemence 
of these attacks, that the unfortunate subjects of them are often driven 
backwards for great distances at immense speed, on the well-known 
principle of the aeolipile. Not being able to see where they are going, 
these poor creatures dash themselves to pieces against the rocks or 
are precipitated over the cliffs, and thus many valuable lives are lost 
annually. As, during the whole pepper-harvest, they feed exclusively 
on this stimulant, they become exceedingly irritable. The smallest 
injury is resented with ungovernable rage. A young man suffering 
from the pepper-fever, as it is called, cudgelled another most severely 
for appropriating a superannuated relative of trifling value, and was 
only pacified by having a present made him of a pig of that peculiar 
species of swine called the Peccavi by the Catholic Jews, who, it is 
well known, abstain from swine's flesh in imitation of the Mahometan 
Buddhists. 

" The bread-tree grows abundantly. Its branches are well known 
to Europe and America under the familiar name of maccaroni. The 
smaller twigs are called vermicelli. They have a decided animal 
flavor, as may be observed in the soups containing them. Maccaroni, 
being tubular, is the favorite habitat of a very dangerous insect, 
which is rendered peculiarly ferocious by being boiled. The govern- 
ment of the island, therefore, never allows a stick of it to be exported 
without being accompanied by a piston with which its cavity may at 
any time be thoroughly swept out. These are commonly lost or 
stolen before the maccaroni arrives among us. It therefore always 
contains many of these insects, which, however, generally die of old 
age in the shops, so that accidents from this source are comparatively 
rare. 

"The fruit of the bread-tree consists principally of hot rolls. 
The buttered-muffin variety is supposed to be a hybrid with the 
cocoa-nut palm, the cream found on the milk of the cocoa-nut exuding 
from the hybrid in the shape of butter, just as the ripe fruit is splitting, 
so as to fit it for the tea-table, where it is commonly served up with 
cold" 

There, — I don't want to read any more of it. You see that 

many of these statements are highly improbable. — No, I shall not 
mention the paper. — No, neither of them wrote it, though it reminds 
me of the style of these popular writers. I think the fellow who wrote 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 533 

it must have been reading some of their stories, and got them mixed 
up with his history and geography. I don't suppose he lies; — he sells 
it to the editor, who knows how many squares off "Sumatra" is. 

The editor, who sells it to the public By the way, the papers have 

been very civil — haven't they ? — to the — the — what d' ye call it ? — 
"Northern Magazine," — isn't it? — got up by some of those Come- 
outers, down East, as an organ for their local peculiarities. 

The Professor has been to see me. Came in, glorious, at 

about twelve o'clock, last night. Said he had been with "the boys." 
On inquiry, found that "the boys" were certain baldish and grayish 
old gentlemen that one sees or hears of in various important stations 
of society. The Professor is one of the same set, but he always talks 

as if he had been out of college about ten years, whereas 

[Each of these dots was a little nod, which the company understood, 
as the reader will, no doubt.] He calls them sometimes "the boys," 
and sometimes "the old fellows." Call him by the latter title, and 
see how he likes it. — Well, he came in last night, glorious, as I was 
saying. Of course I don't mean vinously exalted; he drinks little 
wine on such Occasions, and is well known to all the Peters and 
Patricks as the gentleman who always has indefinite quantities of 
black tea to kill any extra glass of red claret he may have swallowed. 
But the Professor says he always gets tipsy on old memories at these 
gatherings. He was, I forgot how many years old when he went to 
the meeting; just turned of twenty now, — he said. He made various 
youthful proposals to me, including a duet under the landlady's 
daughter's window. He had just learned a trick, he said, of one of 
"the boys," of getting a splendid bass out of a door-panel by rubbing 
it with the palm of his hand. Offered to sing "The sky is bright," 
accompanying himself on the front-door, if I would go down and help 
in the chorus. Said there never was such a set of fellows as the old 
boys of the set he has been with. Judges, mayors, Congress-men, 
Mr. Speakers, leaders in science, clergymen better than famous, and 
famous too, poets by the half-dozen, singers with voices like angels, 
financiers, wits, three of the best laughers in the Commonwealth, 
engineers, agriculturists, — all forms of talent and knowledge he pre- 
tended were represented in that meeting. Then he began to quote 
Byron about Santa Croce, and maintained that he could "furnish 
out creation" in all its details from that set of his. He would like to 



534 AMERICAN PROSE 



have the whole boodle of them, (I remonstrated against this word, but 
the Professor said it was a diabolish good word, and he would have 
no other,) with their wives and children, shipwrecked on a remote 
island, just to see how splendidly they would reorganize society. 
They could build a city, — they have done it; make constitutions and 
laws; establish churches and lyceums; teach and practise the healing 
art; instruct in every department; found observatories; create com- 
merce and manufactures; write songs and hymns, and sing 'em, and 
make instruments to accompany the songs with; lastly, publish a 
journal almost as good as the "Northern Magazine," edited by the 
Come-outers. There was nothing they were not up to, from a christ- 
ening to a hanging; the last, to be sure, could never be called for, 
unless some stranger got in among them. 

1 let the Professor talk as long as he liked; it didn't make 

much difference to me whether it was all truth, or partly made up 
of pale Sherry and similar elements. All at once he jumped up and 
said, — 

Don't you want to hear what I just read to the boys ? 

I have had questions of a similar character asked me before, 
occasionally. A man of iron mould might perhaps say, No! I am 
not a man of iron mould, and said that I should be delighted. 

The Professor then read — with that slightly sing-song cadence 
which is observed to be common in poets reading their own verses — 
the following stanzas; holding them at a focal distance of about two 
feet and a half, with an occasional movement back or forward for 
better adjustment, the appearance of which has been likened by some 
impertinent young folks to that of the act of playing on the trombone. 
His eye-sight was never better; I have his word for it. 

MARE RUBRUM. 

Flash out a stream of blood-red wine ! — 

For I would drink to other days; 
And brighter shall their memory shine, 

Seen flaming through its crimson blaze. 
The roses die, the summers fade; 

But every ghost of boyhood's dream 
By Nature's magic power is laid 

To sleep beneath this blood-red stream. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES S3 5 



It filled the purple grapes that lay 

And drank the splendors of the sun 
Where the long summer's cloudless day 

Is mirrored in the broad Garonne; 
It pictures still the bacchant shapes 

That saw their hoarded sunlight shed, — 
The maidens dancing on the grapes, — 

Their milk-white ankles splashed with red. 

Beneath these waves of crimson lie, 

In rosy fetters prisoned fast, 
Those flitting shapes that never die, 

The swift-winged visions of the past. 
Kiss but the crystal's mystic rim, 

Each shadow rends its flowery chain, 
Springs in a bubble from its brim 

And walks the chambers of the brain. 

Poor Beauty! time and fortune's wrong 

No form nor feature may withstand, — 
Thy wrecks are scattered all along, 

Like emptied sea-shells on the sand; — 
Yet, sprinkled with this blushing rain, 

The dust restores each blooming girl, 
As if the sea-shells moved again 

Their glistening lips of pink and pearl. 

Here lies the home of school-boy life, 

With creaking stair and wind-swept hall, 
And, scarred by many a truant knife, 

Our old initials on the wall; 
Here rest — their keen vibrations mute — 

The shout of voices known so well, 
The ringing laugh, the wailing flute, 

The chiding of the sharp-tongued bell. 

Here, clad in burning robes, are laid 

Life's blossomed joys, untimely shed; 
And here those cherished forms have strayed 

We miss awhile, and call them dead. 
What wizard fills the maddening glass ? 

What soil the enchanted clusters grew, 
That buried passions wake and pass 

In beaded drops of fiery dew ? 



536 AMERICAN PROSE 



Nay, take the cup of blood-red wine, — 

Our hearts can boast a warmer glow, 
Filled from a vintage more divine, — 

Calmed, but not chilled by winter's snow! 
To-night the palest wave we sip 

Rich as the priceless draught shall be 
That wet the bride of Cana's lip, — 

The wedding wine of Galilee! 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 

FROM 

LEAVES FROM MY JOURNAL IN ITALY AND ELSEWHERE 

AT SEA 

The sea was meant to be looked at from shore, as mountains are 
from the plain. Lucretius made 'this discovery long ago, and was 
blunt enough to blurt it forth, romance and sentiment — in other 
words, the pretence of feeling what we do not feel — being inventions 
of a later day. To be sure, Cicero used to twaddle about Greek 
literature and philosophy, much as people do about ancient art now-a- 
days; but I rather sympathize with those stout old Romans who 
despised both, and believed that to found an empire was as grand 
an achievement as to build an epic or to carve a statue. But though 
there might have been twaddle, (as why not, since there was a 
Senate?) I rather think Petrarch was the first choragus of that 
sentimental dance which so long led young folks away from the 
realities of life like the piper of Hamelin, and whose succession ended, 
let us hope, with Chateaubriand. But for them, Byron, whose real 
strength lay in his sincerity, would never have talked about the 
"sea bounding beneath him like a steed that knows his rider," and 
all that sort of thing. Even if it had been true, steam has been as 
fatal to that part of the romance of the sea as to hand-loom weaving. 
But what say you to a twelve days' calm such as we dozed through 
in mid-Atlantic and in mid-August ? I know nothing so tedious at 
once and exasperating as that regular slap of the wilted sails when 
the ship rises and falls with the slow breathing of the sleeping sea, 
one greasy, brassy swell following another, slow, smooth, immitigable 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 537 

as the series of Wordsworth's "Ecclesiastical Sonnets." Even at 
his best, Neptune, in a tete-d-tite, has a way of repeating himself, an 
obtuseness to the ne quid nimis, that is stupefying. It reminds me 
of organ-music and my good friend Sebastian Bach. A fugue or two 
will do very well; but a concert made up of nothing else is altogether 
too epic for me. There is nothing so desperately monotonous as the 
sea, and I no longer wonder at the cruelty of pirates. Fancy an 
existence in which the coming up of a clumsy finback whale, who 
says Pooh! to you solemnly as you lean over the taffrail, is an event 
as exciting as an election on shore! The dampness seems to strike 
into the wits as into the lucifer-matches, so that one may scratch a 
thought half a dozen times and get nothing at last but a faint sputter, 
the forlorn hope of fire, which only goes far enough to leave a sense of 
suffocation behind it. Even smoking becomes an employment instead 
of a solace. Who less likely to come to their wit's end than W.M.T. 
and A.H.C. ? Yet I have seen them driven to five meals a day for 
mental occupation. I sometimes sit and pity Noah; but even he had 
this advantage over all succeeding navigators, that, wherever he 
landed, he was sure to get no ill news from home. He should be 
canonized as the patron-saint of newspaper correspondents, being 
the only man who ever had the very last authentic intelligence from 
everywhere. 

The finback whale recorded just above has much the look of a 
brown-paper parcel, — the whitish stripes that run across him answer- 
ing for the pack-thread. He has a kind of accidental hole in the top 
of his head, through which he pooh-poohs the rest of creation, and 
which looks as if it had been made by the chance thrust of a chestnut 
rail. He was our first event. Our second was harpooning a sunfish, 
which basked dozing on the lap of the sea, looking so much like 
the giant turtle of an alderman's dream, that I am persuaded he 
would have made mock-turtle soup rather than acknowledge his 
imposture. But he broke away just as they were hauling him over 
the side, and sank placidly through the clear water, leaving behind 
him a crimson trail that wavered a moment and was gone. 

The sea, though, has better sights than these. When we were 
up with the Azores, we began to meet flying-fish and Portuguese men- 
of-war beautiful as the galley of Cleopatra, tiny craft that dared 
these seas before Columbus. I have seen one of the former rise 



538 AMERICAN PROSE 



from the crest of a wave, and, glancing from another some two hundred 
feet beyond, take a fresh flight of perhaps as long. How Calderon 
would have similized this pretty creature had he ever seen it! How 
would he have run him up and down the gamut of simile! If a fish, 
then a fish with wings; if a bird, then a bird with fins; and so on, 
keeping up the poor shuttlecock of a conceit as is his wont. Indeed, 
the poor thing is the most killing bait for a comparison, and I assure 
you I have three or four in my inkstand; — but be calm, they shall 
stay there. Moore, who looked on all nature as a kind of Gradus ad 
Parnassum, a thesaurus of similitude, and spent his life in a game of 
What is my thought like? with himself, did the flying-fish on his 
way to Bermuda. So I leave him in peace. 

The most beautiful thing I have seen at sea, all the more so that I 
had never heard of it, is the trail of a shoal of fish through the phos- 
phorescent water. It is like a flight of silver rockets or the streaming 
of northern lights through that silent nether heaven. I thought 
nothing could go beyond that rustling starfoam which was churned 
up by our ship's bows, or those eddies and disks of dreamy flame 
that rose and wandered out of sight behind us. 

'Twas fire our ship was plunging through, 

Cold fire that o'er the quarter flew; 

And wandering moons of idle flame 

Grew full and waned, and went and came, 

Dappling with light the huge sea-snake 

That slid behind us in the wake. 

But there was something even more delicately rare in the apparition 
of the fish, as they turned up in gleaming furrows the latent moon- 
shine which the ocean seemed to have hoarded against these vacant 
interlunar nights. In the Mediterranean one day, as we were lying 
becalmed, I observed the water freckled with dingy specks, which 
at last gathered to a pinkish scum on the surface. The sea had been 
so phosphorescent for some nights, that when the Captain gave me 
my bath, by dousing me with buckets from the house on deck, the 
spray flew off my head and shoulders in sparks. It occurred to me 
that this dirty-looking scum might be the luminous matter, and I had 
a pailful dipped up to keep till after dark. When I went to look at 
it after nightfall, it seemed at first perfectly dead; but when I shook 
it, the whole broke out into what I can only liken to milky flames, 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 539 

whose lambent silence was strangely beautiful, and startled me almost 
as actual projection might an alchemist. I could not bear to be the 
death of so much beauty; so I poured it all overboard again. 

Another sight worth taking a voyage for is that of the sails 
by moonlight. Our course was "south and by east, half south," so 
that we seemed bound for the full moon as she rolled up over our 
wavering horizon. Then I used to go forward to the bowsprit and 
look back. Our ship was a clipper, with every rag set, stunsails, 
sky-scrapers, and all; nor was it easy to believe that such a wonder 
could be built of canvas as that white many-storied pile of cloud 
that stooped over me, or drew back as we rose and fell with the waves. 

These are all the wonders I can recall of my five weeks at sea, 
except the sun. Were you ever alone with the sun ? You think it a 
very simple question; but I never was, in the full sense of the word, 
till I was held up to him one cloudless day on the broad buckler of the 
ocean. I suppose one might have the same feeling in the desert. 
I remember getting something like it years ago, when I climbed alone 
to the top of a mountain, and lay face up on the hot gray moss, striv- 
ing to get a notion of how an Arab might feel. It was my American 
commentary of the Koran, and not a bad one. In a New England 
winter, too, when everything is gagged with snow, as if some gigantic 
physical geographer were taking a cast of the earth's face in plaster, 
the bare knob of a hill will introduce you to the sun as a comparative 
stranger. But at sea you may be alone with him day after day, and 
almost all day long. I never understood before that nothing short of 
full daylight can give the supremest sense of solitude. Darkness 
will not do so, for the imagination peoples it with more shapes than 
ever were poured from the frozen loins of the populous North. The 
sun, I sometimes think, is a little grouty at sea, especially at high noon, 
feeling that he wastes his beams on those fruitless furrows. It is 
otherwise with the moon. She "comforts the night," as Chapman 
iinely says, and I always found her a companionable creature. 

In the ocean-horizon I took untiring delight. It is the true 
magic-circle of expectation and conjecture, — almost as good as a 
wishing-ring. What will rise over that edge we sail toward daily and 
never overtake ? A sail ? an island ? the new shore of the Old World ? 
Something rose every day, which I need not have gone so far to see, 
but at whose levee I was a -much more faithful courtier than on shore. 



540 AMERICAN PROSE 



A cloudless sunrise in mid-ocean is beyond comparison for simple 
grandeur. It is like Dante's style, bare and perfect. Naked sun 
meets naked sea, the true classic of nature. There may be more 
sentiment in morning on shore, — the shivering fairy-jewelry of dew, 
the silver point-lace of sparkling hoar-frost, — but there is also more 
complexity, more of the romantic. The one savors of the elder Edda, 
the other of the Minnesingers. 

And I thus floating, lonely elf, 

A kind of planet by myself, 

The mists draw up and furl away, 

And in the east a warming gray, 

Faint as the tint of oaken woods 

When o'er their buds May breathes and broods, 

Tells that the golden sunrise-tide 

Is lapsing up earth's thirsty side, 

Each moment purpling on the crest 

Of some stark billow farther west: 

And as the sea-moss droops and hears 

The gurgling flood that nears and nears, 

And then with tremulous content 

Floats out each thankful filament, 

So waited I until it came, 

God's daily miracle, — O shame 

That I had seen so many days 

Unthankful, without wondering praise, 

Not recking more this bliss of earth 

Than the cheap fire that fights my hearth! 

But now glad thoughts and holy pour 

Into my heart, as once a year 

To San Miniato's open door, 

In long procession, chanting clear, 

Through slopes of sun, through shadows hoar, 

The coupled monks slow-climbing sing, 

And like a golden censer swing 

From rear to front, from front to rear 

Their alternating bursts of praise, 

Till the roof's fading seraphs gaze 

Down through an odorous mist, that crawls 

Lingeringly up the darkened walls, 

And the dim arches, silent long, 

Are startled with triumphant song. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 54 1 

I wrote yesterday that the sea still rimmed our prosy lives with 
mystery and conjecture. But one is shut up on shipboard like 
Montaigne in his tower, with nothing to do but to review his own 
thoughts and contradict himself. Dire, redire, et me contredire, will 
be the staple of my journal till I see land. I say nothing of such 
matters as the montagna bruna on which Ulysses wrecked'; but since 
the sixteenth century could any man reasonably hope to stumble on 
one of those wonders which were cheap as dirt in the days of St. Saga ? 
Faustus, Don Juan, and Tanhaiiser are the last ghosts of legend, that 
lingered almost till the Gallic cock-crow of universal enlightenment 
and disillusion. The Public School has done for Imagination. What 
shall I see in Outre-Mer, or on the way thither, but what can be seen 
with eyes ? To be sure, I stick by the sea-serpent, and would fain 
believe that science has scotched, not killed him. Nor is he to be 
lightly given up, for, like the old Scandinavian snake, he binds 
together for us the two hemispheres of Past and Present, of Belief 
and Science. He is the link which knits us seaboard Yankees with 
our Norse progenitors, interpreting between the age of the dragon and 
that of the railroad-train. We have made ducks and drakes of that 
large estate of wonder and delight bequeathed to us by ancestral 
vikings, and this alone remains to us unthrift heirs of Linn. 

I feel an undefined respect for a man who has seen the sea-serpent. 
He is to his brother-fishers what the poet is to his fellow-men. Where 
they have seen nothing better than a school of horse-mackerel, or the 
idle coils of ocean around Half-way Rock, he has caught authentic 
glimpses of the withdrawing mantel-hem of the Edda age. I care 
not for the monster himself. It is not the thing, but the belief in 
the thing, that is dear to me. May it be long before Professor Owen 
is comforted with the sight of his unfleshed vertebrae, long before they 
stretch many a rood behind Kimball's or Barnum's glass, reflected 
in the shallow orbs of Mr. and Mrs. Public, which stare, but see not! 
When we read that Captain Spalding, of the pink-stern Three Potties, 
has beheld him rushing through the brine like an infinite series of 
bewitched mackerel-casks, we feel that the mystery of old Ocean, at 
least, has not yet been sounded, — that Faith and Awe survive there 
unevaporate. I once ventured the horse-mackerel theory to an old 
fisherman, browner than a tomcod. "Hos-mackril!" he exclaimed 
indignantly, "hos-mackril be — " (here he used a phrase commonly 



542 AMERICAN PROSE 



indicated in laical literature by the same sign which serves for Doctor- 
ate in Divinity,) "don't yer spose I know a hos-mackril ? " The 
intonation of that "/" would have silenced Professor Monkbarns 
Owen with his provoking phoca forever. What if one should ask him 
if he knew a trilobite ? 

The fault of modern travellers is, that they see nothing out of 
sight. They talk of eocene periods and tertiary formations, and 
tell us how the world looked to the plesiosaur. They take science 
(or nescience) with them, instead of that soul of generous trust their 
elders had. All their senses are sceptics and doubters, materialists 
reporting things for other sceptics to doubt still further upon. Nature 
becomes a reluctant witness upon the stand, badgered with geologist 
hammers and phials of acid. There have been no travellers since 
those included in Hakluyt and Purchas, except Martin, perhaps, who 
saw an inch or two into the invisible at the Orkneys. We have peri- 
patetic lecturers, but no more travellers. Travellers' stories are no 
longer proverbial. We have picked nearly every apple (wormy or 
otherwise) from the world's tree of knowledge, and that without 
an Eve to tempt us. Two or three have hitherto hung luckily beyond 
reach on a lofty bough shadowing the interior of Africa, but there is a 
German Doctor at this very moment pelting at them with sticks 
and stones. It may be only next week, and these too, bitten by 
geographers and geologists, will be thrown away. 

Analysis is carried into everything. Even Deity is subjected to 
chemic tests. We must have exact knowledge, a cabinet stuck full of 
facts pressed, dried, or preserved in spirits, instead of the large, vague 
world our fathers had. With them science was poetry; with us, 
poetry is science. Our modern Eden is a /tortus siccus. Tourists 
defraud rather than enrich us. They have not that sense of aesthetic 
proportion which characterized the elder traveller. Earth is no 
longer the fine work of art it was, for nothing is left to the imagination. 
Job Hortop, arrived at the height of the Bermudas, thinks it full time 
to indulge us in a merman. Nay, there is a story told by Webster, in 
his "Witchcraft," of a merman with a mitre, who, on being sent back 
to his watery diocese of finland, made what advances he could toward 
an episcopal benediction by bowing his head thrice. Doubtless he 
had been consecrated by St. Antony of Padua. A dumb bishop 
would be sometimes no unpleasant phenomenon, by the way. Sir 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 543 

John Hawkins is not satisfied with telling us about the merely 
sensual Canaries, but is generous enough to throw us in a handful of 
"certain flitting islands" to boot. Henry Hawkes describes the 
visible Mexican cities, and then is not so frugal but that he can give 
us a few invisible ones. Thus do these generous ancient mariners 
make children of us again. Their successors show us an earth 
effete and past bearing, tracing out with the eyes of industrious fleas 
every wrinkle and crowfoot. 

The journals of the elder navigators are prose Odysseys. The 
geographies of our ancestors were works of fancy and imagination. 
They read poems where we yawn over items. Their world was a huge 
wonder-horn, exhaustless as that which Thor strove to drain. Ours 
would scarce quench the small thirst of a bee. No modern voyager 
brings back the magical foundation-stones of a Tempest. No 
Marco Polo, traversing the desert beyond the city of Lok, would 
tell of things able to inspire the mind of Milton with 

"Calling shapes and beckoning shadows dire, 
And airy tongues that syllable men's names 
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses." 

It was easy enough to believe the story of Dante, when two 
thirds of even the upper-world were yet untraversed and unmapped. 
With every step of the recent traveller our inheritance of the wonder- 
ful is diminished. Those beautifully pictured notes of the Possible 
are redeemed at a ruinous discount in the hard and cumbrous coin 
of the Actual. How are we not defrauded and impoverished ? Does 
California vie with El Dorado? or are Bruce's Abyssinian kings a 
set-off for Prester John ? A bird in the bush is worth two in the hand. 
And if the philosophers have not even yet been able to agree whether 
the world has any existence independent of ourselves, how do we not 
gain a loss in every addition to the catalogue of Vulgar Errors? 
Where are the fishes which nidificated in trees ? Where the mono- 
podes sheltering themselves from the sun beneath their single 
umbrella-like foot, — umbrella-like in everything but the fatal neces- 
sity of being borrowed ? Where the Acephali, with whom Herodotus, 
in a kind of ecstasy, wound up his climax of men with abnormal top- 
pieces? Where the Roc whose eggs are possibly boulders, needing 
no far-fetched theory of glacier or iceberg to account for them? 



544 AMERICAN PROSE 



Where the tails of the men of Kent ? Where the no legs of the bird 
of paradise? Where the Unicorn, with that single horn of his, 
sovereign against all manner of poisons? Where the Fountain of 
Youth? Where that Thessalian spring, which, without cost to the 
country, convicted and punished perjurers ? Where the Amazons of 
Orellana? All these, and a thousand other varieties, we have lost, 
and have got nothing instead of them. And those who have robbed 
us of them have stolen that which not enriches themselves. It is so 
much wealth cast into the sea beyond all approach of diving-bells. We 
owe no thanks to Mr. J. E. Worcester, whose Geography we studied 
enforcedly at school. Yet even he had his relentings, and in some 
softer moment vouchsafed us a fine, inspiring print of the Maelstrom, 
answerable to the twenty-four mile diameter of its suction. Year by 
year, more and more of the world gets disenchanted. Even the icy 
privacy of the arctic and antarctic circles is invaded. Our youth 
are no longer ingenious, as indeed no ingenuity is demanded of them. 
Everything is accounted for, everything cut and dried, and the world 
may be put together as easily as the fragments of a dissected map. 
The Mysterious bounds nothing now on the North, South, East, or 
West. We have played Jack Horner with our earth, till there is never 
a plum left in it. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

There have been many painful crises since the impatient vanity 
of South Carolina hurried ten prosperous Commonwealths into a 
crime whose assured retribution was to leave them either at the mercy 
of the nation they had wronged, or of the anarchy they had sum- 
moned but could not control, when no thoughtful American opened 
his morning paper without dreading to find that he had no longer a 
country to love and honor. Whatever the result of the convulsion 
whose first shocks were beginning to be felt, there would still be 
enough square miles of earth for elbow-room; but that ineffable 
sentiment made up of memory and hope, of instinct and tradition, 
which swells every man's heart and shapes his thought, though 
perhaps never present to his consciousness, would be gone from it, 
leaving it common earth and nothing more. Men might gather rich 
crops from it, but that ideal harvest of priceless associations would be 
reaped no longer; that fine virtue which sent up messages of courage 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 545 

and security from every sod of it would have evaporated beyond 
recall. We should be irrevocably cut off from our past, and be 
forced to splice the ragged ends of our lives upon whatever new con- 
ditions chance might twist for us. 

We confess that we had our doubts at first whether the patriotism 
of our people were not too narrowly provincial to embrace the pro- 
portions of national peril. We had an only too natural distrust of 
immense public meetings and enthusiastic cheers, and we knew that 
the plotters of rebellion had roused a fanaticism of caste in the 
Southern States sure to hold out longer than that fanaticism of the 
flag which was preached in the North, for hatred has deeper roots 
than sentiment, though we knew also that frenzy would pass through 
its natural stages, to end in dejection, as surely in Carolina as in 
New York. 

That a reaction should follow the holiday enthusiasm with which 
the war was entered on, that it should follow soon, and that the 
slackening of public spirit should be proportionate to the previous 
over-tension, might well be foreseen by all who had studied human 
nature or history. Men acting gregariously are always in extremes; 
as they are one moment capable of higher courage, so they are liable, 
the next, to baser depression, and it is often a matter of chance whether 
numbers shall multiply confidence or discouragement. Nor does 
deception lead more surely to distrust of men, than self-deception to 
suspicion of principles. The only faith that wears well and holds its 
color in all weathers is that which is woven of conviction and set with 
the sharp mordant of experience. Enthusiasm is good material for 
the orator, but the statesman needs something more durable to 
work in, — must be able to rely on the deliberate reason and consequent 
firmness of the people, without which that presence of mind, no less 
essential in times of moral than of material peril, will be wanting at 
the critical moment. Would this fervor of the Free States hold out ? 
Was it kindled by a just feeling of the value of constitutional liberty ? 
Had it body enough to withstand the inevitable dampening of 
checks, reverses, delays ? Had our population intelligence enough to 
comprehend that the choice was between order and anarchy, between 
the equilibrium of a government by law and the tussle of misrule by 
pronunciamiento ? Could a war be maintained without the ordinary- 
stimulus of hatred and plunder, and with the impersonal loyalty of 



546 AMERICAN PROSE 



principle? These were serious questions, and with no precedent to 
aid in answering them. 

At the beginning of the war there was, indeed, occasion for the 
most anxious apprehension. A President known to be infected with 
the political heresies, and suspected of sympathy with the treason, of 
the Southern conspirators, had just surrendered the reins, we will not 
say of power, but of chaos, to a successor known only as the repre- 
sentative of a party whose leaders, with long training in opposition, 
had none in the conduct of affairs; an empty treasury was called 
on to supply resources beyond precedent in the history of finance; 
the trees were yet growing and the iron unmined with which a navy 
was to be % built and armored; officers without discipline were to make 
a mob into an army; and, above all, the public opinion of Europe, 
echoed and reinforced with every vague hint and every specious 
argument of despondency by a powerful faction at home, was either 
contemptuously sceptical or actively hostile. It would be hard to 
over-estimate the force of this latter element of disintegration and 
discouragement among a people where every citizen at home, and 
every soldier in the field, is a reader of newspapers. The pedlers of 
rumor in the North were the most effective allies of the rebellion. A 
nation can be liable to no more insidious treachery than that of the 
telegraph, sending hourly its electric thrill of panic along the remotest 
nerves of the community, till the excited imagination makes every 
real danger loom heightened with its unreal double. The armies of 
Jefferson Davis have been more effectually strengthened by the 
phantom regiments of Northern newspapers, than by the merciless 
dragoonery of his conscription. 

And even if we look only at more palpable difficulties, the problem 
to be solved by our civil war was so vast, both in its immediate rela- 
tions and its future consequences; the conditions of its solution were 
so intricate and so greatly dependent on incalculable and uncon- 
trollable contingencies; so many of the data, whether for hope or fear, 
were, from their novelty, incapable of arrangement under any of the 
categories of historical precedent, — that there were moments of 
crisis when the firmest believer in the strength and sufficiency of 
the democratic theory of government might well hold his breath in 
vague apprehension of disaster. Our teachers of political philosophy, 
solemnly arguing from the precedent of some petty Grecian, Italian, 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 547 

or Flemish city, whose long periods of aristocracy were broken now 
and then by awkward parentheses of mob, had always taught us that 
democracies were incapable of the sentiment of loyalty, of con- 
centrated and prolonged effort, of far-reaching conceptions; were 
absorbed in material interests; impatient of regular, and much more 
of exceptional restraint; had no natural nucleus of gravitation, 
nor any forces but centrifugal; were always on the verge of civil 
war, and slunk at last into the natural almshouse of bankrupt popular 
government, a military despotism. Here was indeed a dreary outlook 
for persons who knew democracy, not by rubbing shoulders with it 
lifelong, but merely from books, and America only by the report of 
some fellow-Briton, who, having eaten a bad dinner or lost a carpet- 
bag here, had written to the Times demanding redress, and drawing a 
mournful inference of democratic instability. Nor were men wanting 
among ourselves who had so steeped their brains in London litera- 
ture as to mistake Cockneyism for European culture, and contempt 
of their country for cosmopolitan breadth of view, and who, owing 
all they had and all they were to democracy, thought it had an air 
of high-breeding to join in the shallow epicedium that our bubble 
had burst. Others took up the Tory gabble, that all the political 
and military genius was on the side of the Rebels, and even yet are 
not weary of repeating it, when there is not one of Jefferson Davis's 
prophecies as to the course of events, whether at home or abroad, 
but has been utterly falsified by the event, when his finance has 
literally gone to rags, and when even the journals of his own capital 
are beginning to inquire how it is, that, while their armies are always 
victorious, the territory of the Confederacy is steadily diminishing. 
But beside any disheartening influences which might affect the timid 
or the despondent, there were reasons enough of settled gravity 
against any over-confidence of hope. A war — which, whether we 
consider the expanse of the territory at stake, the hosts brought into 
the field, or the reach of the principles involved, may fairly be reck- 
oned the most momentous of modern times — was to be waged by a 
people divided at home, unnerved by fifty years of peace, under a chief 
magistrate without experience and without reputation, whose every 
measure was sure to be cunningly hampered by a jealous and un- 
scrupulous minority, and who, while dealing with unheard-of compli- 
cations at home, must soothe a hostile neutrality abroad, waiting only 



548 AMERICAN PROSE 



a pretext to become war. All this was to be done without warning 
and without preparation, while at the same time a social revolution 
was to be accomplished in the political condition of four millions of 
people, by softening the prejudices, allaying the fears, and gradually 
obtaining the co-operation, of their unwilling liberators. Surely, 
if ever there were an occasion when the heightened imagination of the 
historian might see Destiny visibly intervening in human affairs, here 
was a knot worthy of her shears. Never, perhaps, was any system 
of government tried by so continuous and searching a strain as ours 
during the last three years; never has any shown itself stronger; 
and never could that strength be so directly traced to the virtue 
and intelligence of the people, — to that general enlightenment and 
prompt efficiency of public opinion possible only under the influence of 
a political framework like our own. We find it hard to understand 
how even a foreigner should be blind to the grandeur of the combat 
of ideas that has been going on here, — to the heroic energy, persist- 
ency, and self-reliance of a nation proving that it knows how much 
dearer greatness is than mere power; and we own that it is impossible 
for us to conceive the mental and moral condition of the American 
who does not feel his spirit braced and heightened by being even a 
spectator of such qualities and achievements. That a steady purpose 
and a definite aim have been given to the jarring forces which, at 
the beginning of the war, spent themselves in the discussion of 
schemes which could only become operative, if at all, after the war 
was over; that a popular excitement has been slowly intensified into 
an earnest national will; that a somewhat impracticable moral senti- 
ment has been made the unconscious instrument of a practical moral 
end; that the treason of covert enemies, the jealousy of rivals, the 
unwise zeal of friends, have been made not only useless for mischief, 
but even useful for good; that the conscientious sensitiveness of 
England to the horrors of civil conflict has been prevented from com- 
plicating a domestic with a foreign war; — all these results, any one 
of which might suffice to prove greatness in a ruler, have been mainly 
due to the good sense, the good humor, the sagacity, the large- 
mindedness, and the unselfish honesty of the unknown man whom a 
blind fortune, as it seemed, had lifted from the crowd to the most 
dangerous and difficult eminence of modern times. It is by presence 
of mind in untried emergencies that the native metal of a man is 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 549 

tested; it is by the sagacity to see, and the fearless honesty to admit, 
whatever of truth there may be in an adverse opinion, in order more 
convincingly to expose the fallacy that lurks behind it, that a reasoner 
at length gains for his mere statement of a fact the force of argument; 
it is by a wise forecast which allows hostile combinations to go so far 
as by the inevitable reaction to become elements of his own power, 
that a politician proves his genius for state-craft; and especially 
it is by so gently guiding public sentiment that he seems to follow 
it, by so yielding doubtful points that he can be firm without seeming 
obstinate in essential ones, and thus gain the advantages of com- 
promise without the weakness of concession; by so instinctively 
comprehending the temper and prejudices of a people as to make 
them gradually conscious of the superior wisdom of his freedom 
from temper and prejudice, — it is by qualities such as these that a 
magistrate shows himself worthy to be chief in a commonwealth 
of freemen. And it is for qualities such as these that we firmly 
believe History will rank Mr. Lincoln among the most prudent of 
statesmen and the most successful of rulers. If we wish to appreciate 
him, we have only to conceive the inevitable chaos in which we should 
now be weltering, had a weak man or an unwise one been chosen in 
his stead. 

"Bare is back," says the Norse proverb, "without brother 
behind it"; and this is, by analogy, true of an elective magistracy. 
The hereditary ruler in any critical emergency may reckon on the 
inexhaustible resources of prestige, of sentiment, of superstition, of 
dependent interest, while the new man must slowly and painfully 
create all these out of the unwilling material around him, by superi- 
ority of character, by patient singleness of purpose, by sagacious 
presentiment of popular tendencies and instinctive sympathy with 
the national character. Mr. Lincoln's task was one of peculiar and 
exceptional difficulty. Long habit had accustomed the American 
people to the notion of a party in power, and of a President as its 
creature and organ, while the more vital fact, that the executive 
for the time being represents the abstract idea of government as a 
permanent principle superior to all party and all private interest, 
had gradually become unfamiliar. They had so long seen the public 
policy more or less directed by views of party, and often even of 
personal advantage., as to be ready to suspect the motives of a chief 



550 AMERICAN PROSE 



magistrate compelled, for the first time in our history, to feel himself 
the head and hand of a great nation, and to act upon the fundamental 
maxim, laid down by all publicists, that the first duty of a govern- 
ment is to defend and maintain its own existence. Accordingly, a 
powerful weapon seemed to be put into the hands of the opposition by 
the necessity under which the administration found itself of applying 

this old truth to new relations 

The change which three years have brought about is too remark- 
able to be passed over without comment, too weighty in its lesson 
not to be laid to heart. Never did a President enter upon office 
with less means at his command, outside his own strength of heart 
and steadiness of understanding, for inspiring confidence in the 
people, and so winning it for himself, than Mr. Lincoln. All that 
was known of him was that he was a good stump-speaker, nominated 
for his availability, — that is, because he had no history, — and chosen 
by a party with whose more extreme opinions he was not in sympathy. 
It might well be feared that a man past fifty, against whom the 
ingenuity of hostile partisans could rake up no accusation, must be 
lacking in manliness of character, in decision of principle, in strength 
of will, — that a man who was at best only the representative of a 
party, and who yet did not fairly represent even that, — would fail 
of political, much more of popular, support. And certainly no one 
ever entered upon office with so few resources of power in the past, 
and so many materials of weakness in the present, as Mr. Lincoln. 
Even in that half of the Union which acknowledged him as President, 
there was a large, and at that time dangerous minority, that hardly 
admitted his claim to the office, and even in the party that elected 
him there was also a large minority that suspected him of being 
secretly a communicant with the church of Laodicea. All that he 
did was sure to be virulently attacked as ultra by one side; all that he 
left undone, to be stigmatized as proof of lukewarmness and back- 
sliding by the other. Meanwhile he was to carry on a truly colossal 
war by means of both; he was to disengage the country from diplo- 
matic entanglements of unprecedented peril undisturbed by the 
help or the hinderance of either, and to win from the crowning dangers 
of his administration, in the confidence of the people, the means 
of his safety and their own. He has contrived to do it, and perhaps 
none of our Presidents since Washington has stood so firm in the 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 551 

confidence of the people as he does after three years of stormy 
administration. 

Mr. Lincoln's policy was a tentative one, and rightly so. He 
laid down no programme which must compel him to be either in- 
consistent or unwise, no cast-iron theorem to which circumstances 
must be fitted as they rose, or else be useless to his ends. He seemed 
to have chosen Mazarin's motto, Le temps et moi. The moi, to be sure, 
was not very prominent at first; but it has grown more and more so, 
till the world is beginning to be persuaded that it stands for a char- 
acter of marked individuality and capacity for affairs. Time was his 
prime-minister, and, we began to think, at one period, his general-in- 
chief also. At first he was so slow that he tired out all those who see 
no evidence of progress but in blowing up the engine; then he was so 
fast, that he took the breath away from those who think there is no 
getting on safely while there is a spark of fire under the boilers. God 
is the only being who has time enough; but a prudent man, who knows 
how to seize occasion, can commonly make a shift to find as much as 
he needs. Mr. Lincoln, as it seems to us in reviewing his career, 
though we have sometimes in our impatience thought otherwise, 
has always waited, as a wise man should, till the right moment 
brought up all his reserves. Semper nocuit differre paratis, is a sound 
axiom, but the really efficacious man will also be sure to know when 
he is not ready, and be firm against all persuasion and reproach till 
he is. 

One would be apt to think, from some of the criticisms made on 
Mr. Lincoln's course by those who mainly agree with him in prin- 
ciple, that the chief object of a statesman should be rather to proclaim 
his adhesion to certain doctrines, than to achieve their triumph 
by quietly accomplishing his ends. In our opinion, there is no more 
unsafe politician than a conscientiously rigid doctrinaire, nothing 
more sure to end in disaster than a theoretic scheme of policy that 
admits of no pliability for contingencies. True, there is a popular 
image of an impossible He, in whose plastic hands the submissive 
destinies of mankind become as wax, and to whose commanding 
necessity the toughest facts yield with the graceful pliancy of fiction ; 
but in real life we commonly find that the men who control cir- 
cumstances, as it is called, are those who have learned to allow for the 
influence of their eddies, and have the nerve to turn them to account 



552 AMERICAN PROSE 



at the happy instant. Mr. Lincoln's perilous task has been to carry 
a rather shackly raft through the rapids, making fast the unrulier 
logs as he could snatch opportunity, and the country is to be con- 
gratulated that he did not think it his duty to run straight at all 
hazards, but cautiously to assure himself with his setting-pole where 
the main current was, and keep steadily to that. He is still in wild 
water, but we have faith that his skill and sureness of eye will bring 
him out right at last. 

A curious, and, as we think, not inapt parallel, might be drawn 
between Mr. Lincoln and one of the most striking figures in modern 
history, — Henry IV. of France. The career of the latter may be 
more picturesque, as that of a daring captain always is; but in all 
its vicissitudes there is nothing more romantic than that sudden 
change, as by a rub of Aladdin's lamp, from the attorney's office 
in a country town of Illinois to the helm of a great nation in times 
like these. The analogy between the characters and circumstances 
of the two men is in many respects singularly close. Succeeding 
to a rebellion rather than a crown, Henry's chief material dependence 
was the Huguenot party, whose doctrines sat upon him with a loose- 
ness distasteful certainly, if not suspicious, to the more fanatical 
among them. King only in name over the greater part of France, and 
with his capital barred against him, it yet gradually became clear 
to the more far-seeing even of the Catholic party, that he was the 
only centre of order and legitimate authority round which France 
could reorganize itself. While preachers who held the divine right 
of kings made the churches of Paris ring with declamations in favor of 
democracy rather than submit to the heretic dog of a Bearnois, — 
much as our soi-disant Democrats have lately been preaching the 
divine right of slavery, and denouncing the heresies of the Declara- 
tion of Independence, — Henry bore both parties in hand till he was 
convinced that only one course of action could possibly combine his 
own interests and those of France. Meanwhile the Protestants 
believed somewhat doubtfully that he was theirs, the Catholics 
hoped somewhat doubtfully that he would be theirs, and Henry 
himself turned aside remonstrance, advice, and curiosity alike with a 
jest or a proverb (if a little high, he liked them none the worse), 
joking continually as his manner was. We have seen Mr. Lincoln 
contemptuously compared to Sancho Panza by persons incapable 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 553 

of appreciating one of the deepest pieces of wisdom in the profoundest 
romance ever written; namely, that, while Don Quixote was incom- 
parable in theoretic and ideal statesmanship, Sancho, with his stock 
of proverbs, the ready money of human experience, made the best 
possible practical governor. Henry IV. was as full of wise saws and 
modern instances as Mr. Lincoln, but beneath all this was the thought- 
ful, practical, humane, and thoroughly earnest man, around whom 
the fragments of France were to gather themselves till she took her 
place again as a planet of the first magnitude in the European sys- 
tem. In one respect Mr. Lincoln was more fortunate than Henry. 
However some may think him wanting in zeal, the most fanatical 
can find no taint of apostasy in any measure of his, nor can the most 
bitter charge him with being influenced by motives of personal 
interest. The leading distinction between the policies of the two 
is one of circumstances. Henry went over to the nation; Mr. 
Lincoln has steadily drawn the nation over to him. One left a 
united France; the other, we hope and believe, will leave a reunited 
America. We leave our readers to trace the further points of differ- 
ence and resemblance for themselves, merely suggesting a general 
similarity which has often occurred to us. One only point of melan- 
choly interest we will allow ourselves to touch upon. That Mr. 
Lincoln is not handsome nor elegant we learn from certain English 
tourists, who would consider similar revelations in regard to Queen 
Victoria as thoroughly American in their want of bienseance. It is 
no concern of ours, nor does it affect his fitness for the high place 
he so worthily occupies; but he is certainly as fortunate as Henry 
in the matter of good looks, if we may trust contemporary evidence. 
Mr. Lincoln has also been reproached with Americanism by some not 
unfriendly British critics; but, with all deference, we cannot say that 
we like him any the worse for it, or see in it any reason why he should 

govern Americans the less wisely 

Undoubtedly slavery was the most delicate and embarrassing 
question with which Mr. Lincoln was called on to deal, and it was one 
which no man in his position, whatever his opinions, could evade; for, 
though he might withstand the clamor of partisans, he must sooner 
or later yield to the persistent importunacy of circumstances, which 
thrust the problem upon him at every turn and in every shape. He 
must solve the riddle of this new Sphinx, or be devoured. Though 



554 AMERICAN PROSE 



Mr. Lincoln's policy in this critical affair has not been such as to 
satisfy those who demand an heroic treatment for even the most 
trifling occasion, and who will not cut their coat according to their 
cloth, unless they can borrow the scissors of Atropos, it has been at 
least not unworthy of the long-headed king of Ithaca. Mr. Lincoln 
had the choice of Antonio offered him. Which of the three caskets 
held the prize which was to redeem the fortunes of the country? 
There was the golden one whose showy speciousness might have 
tempted a vain man; the silver of compromise, which might have 
decided the choice of a merely acute one; and the leaden, — dull and 
homely-looking, as prudence always is, — yet with something about 
it sure to attract the eye of practical wisdom. Mr. Lincoln dallied 
with his decision perhaps longer than seemed needful to those on 
whom its awful responsibility was not to rest, but when he made it, 
it was worthy of his cautious but sure-footed understanding. The 
moral of the Sphinx-riddle, and it is a deep one, lies in the childish 
simplicity of the solution. Those who fail in guessing it, fail because 
they are over-ingenious, and cast about for an answer that shall 
suit their own notion of the gravity of the occasion and of their own 
dignity, rather than the occasion itself. 

In a matter which must be finally settled by public opinion, and 
in regard to which the ferment of prejudice and passion on both 
sides has not yet subsided to that equilibrium of compromise from 
which alone a sound public opinion can result, it is proper enough for 
the private citizen to press his own convictions with all possible force 
of argument and persuasion; but the popular magistrate, whose 
judgment must become action, and whose action involves the whole 
county, is bound to wait till the sentiment of the people is so far 
advanced toward his own point of view, that what he does shall find 
support in it, instead of merely confusing it with new elements of 
division. It was not unnatural that men earnestly devoted to the 
saving of their country, and profoundly convinced that slavery was its 
only real enemy, should demand a decided policy round which all 
patriots might rally, — and this might have been the wisest course for 
an absolute ruler. But in the then unsettled state of the public 
mind, with a large party decrying even resistance to the slaveholders' 
rebellion as not only unwise, but even unlawful; with a majority, 
perhaps, even of the would-be loyal so long accustomed to regard 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 555 

the Constitution as a deed of gift conveying to the South their own 
judgment as to policy and instinct as to right, that they were in doubt 
at first whether their loyalty were due to the country or to slavery; 
and with a respectable body of honest and influential men who still 
believed in the possibility of conciliation, — Mr. Lincoln judged 
wisely, that, in laying down a policy in deference to one party, he 
should be giving to the other the very fulcrum for which their dis- 
loyalty had been waiting. 

It behooved a clear-headed man in his position not to yield so 
far to an honest indignation against the brokers of treason in the 
North, as to lose sight of the materials for misleading which were 
their stock in trade, and to forget that it is not the falsehood of 
sophistry which is to be feared, but the grain of truth mingled with 
it to make it specious, — that it is not the knavery of the leaders so 
much as the honesty of the followers they may seduce, that gives 
them power for evil. It was especially his duty to do nothing which 
might help the people to forget the true cause of the war in fruitless 
disputes about its inevitable consequences. 

The doctrine of State rights can be so handled by an adroit 
demagogue as easily to confound the distinction between liberty and 
lawlessness in the minds of ignorant persons, accustomed always to 
be influenced by the sound of certain words, rather than to reflect 
upon the principles which give them meaning. For, though Secession 
involves the manifest absurdity of denying to a State the right of 
making war against any foreign power while permitting it against 
the United States; though it supposes a compact of mutual con- 
cessions and guaranties among States without any arbiter in case 
of dissension; though it contradicts common sense in assuming 
that the men who framed our government did not know what they 
meant when they substituted Union for Confederation; though it 
falsifies history, which shows that the main opposition to the adoption 
of the Constitution was based on the argument that it did not allow 
that independence in the several States which alone would justify 
them in seceding; — yet, as slavery was universally admitted to be a 
reserved right, an inference could be drawn from any direct attack 
upon it (though only in self-defence) to a natural right of resistance, 
logical enough to satisfy minds untrained to detect fallacy, as the 
majority of men always are, and now too much disturbed by the 



556 AMERICAN PROSE 



disorder of the times, to consider that the order of events had any 
legitimate bearing on the argument. Though Mr. Lincoln was too 
sagacious to give the Northern allies of the Rebels the occasion they 
desired and even strove to provoke, yet from the beginning of the war 
the most persistent efforts have been made to confuse the public mind 
as to its origin and motives, and to drag the people of the loyal States 
down from the national position they had instinctively taken to the 
old level of party squabbles and antipathies. The wholly unpro- 
voked rebellion of an oligarchy proclaiming negro slavery the corner- 
stone of free institutions, and in the first flush of over-hasty confi- 
dence venturing to parade the logical sequence of their leading dogma, 
"that slavery is right in principle, and has nothing to do with differ- 
ence of complexion," has been represented as a legitimate and gallant 
attempt to maintain the true principles of democracy. The rightful 
endeavor of an established government, the least onerous that ever 
existed, to defend itself against a treacherous attack on its very 
existence, has been cunningly made to seem the wicked effort of a 
fanatical clique to force its doctrines on an oppressed population. 

Even so long ago as when Mr. Lincoln, not yet convinced of the 
danger and magnitude of the crisis, was endeavoring to persuade 
himself of Union majorities at the South, and to carry on a war that 
was half peace in the hope of a peace that would have been all war, — 
while he was still enforcing the Fugitive Slave Law, under some theory 
that Secession, however it might absolve States from their obligations, 
could not escheat them of their claims under the Constitution, and 
that slaveholders in rebellion had alone among mortals the privilege 
of having their cake and eating it at the same time, — the enemies of 
free government were striving to persuade the people that the war 
was an Abolition crusade. To rebel without reason was proclaimed 
as one of the rights of man, while it was carefully kept out of sight 
that to suppress rebellion is the first duty of government. All the 
evils that have come upon the country have been attributed to the 
Abolitionists, though it is hard to see how any party can become 
permanently powerful except in one of two ways, — either by the 
greater truth of its principles, or the extravagance of the party opposed 
to it. To fancy the ship of state, riding safe at her constitutional 
moorings, suddenly engulfed by a huge kraken of Abolitionism, 
rising from unknown depths and grasping it with slimy tentacles, is 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 557 

to look at the natural history of the matter with the eyes of Pontop- 
pidan. To believe that the leaders in the Southern treason feared 
any danger from Abolitionism, would be to deny them ordinary 
intelligence, though there can be little doubt that they made use 
of it to stir the passions and excite the fears of their deluded accom- 
plices. They rebelled, not because they thought slavery weak, but 
because they believed it strong enough, not to overthrow the govern- 
ment, but to get possession of it; for it becomes daily clearer that 
they used rebellion only as a means of revolution, and if they got 
revolution, though not in the shape they looked for, is the American 
people to save them from its consequences at the cost of its own 
existence ? The election of Mr. Lincoln, which it was clearly in their 
power to prevent had they wished, was the occasion merely, and not 
the cause, of their revolt. Abolitionism, till within a year or two, was 
the despised heresy of a few earnest persons, without political weight 
enough to carry the election of a parish constable; and their cardinal 
principle was disunion, because they were convinced that within 
the Union the position of slavery was impregnable. In spite of the 
proverb, great effects do not follow from small causes, — that is, 
disproportionately small, — but from adequate causes acting under 
certain required conditions. To contrast the size of the oak with that 
of the parent acorn, as if the poor seed had paid all costs from its 
slender strong-box, may serve for a child's wonder; but the real 
miracle lies in that divine league which bound all the forces of nature 
to the service of the tiny germ in fulfilling its destiny. Everything 
has been at work for the past ten years in the cause of antislavery, but 
Garrison and Phillips have been far less successful propagandists than 
the slaveholders themselves, with the constantly-growing arrogance 
of their pretensions and encroachments. They have forced the 
question upon the attention of every voter in the Free States, by 
defiantly putting freedom and democracy on the defensive. But, 
even after the Kansas outrages, there was no wide-spread desire on the 
part of the North to commit aggressions, though there was a growing 
determination to resist them. The popular unanimity in favor of 
the war three years ago was but in small measure the result of anti- 
slavery sentiment, far less of any zeal for abolition. But every 
month of the war, every movement of the allies of slavery in the 
Free States, has been making Abolitionists by the thousand. The 



558 AMERICAN PROSE 



masses of any people, however intelligent, are very little moved by 
abstract principles of humanity and justice, until those principles 
are interpreted for them by the stinging commentary of some infringe- 
ment upon their own rights, and then their instincts and passions, 
once aroused, do indeed derive an incalculable reinforcement of 
impulse and intensity from those higher ideas, those sublime tra- 
ditions, which have no motive political force till they are allied with 
a sense of immediate personal wrong or imminent peril. Then at 
last the stars in their courses begin to fight against Sisera. Had 
any one doubted before that the rights of human nature are unitary, 
that oppression is of one hue the world over, no matter what the color 
of the oppressed, — had any one failed to see what the real essence 
of the contest was, — the efforts of the advocates of slavery among 
ourselves to throw discredit upon the fundamental axioms of the 
Declaration of Independence and the radical doctrines of Christianity, 
could not fail to sharpen his eyes. This quarrel, it is plain, is not 
between Northern fanaticism and Southern institutions, but between 
downright slavery and upright freedom, between despotism and 
democracy, between the Old World and the New. 

The progress of three years has outstripped the expectation of the 
most sanguine, and that of our arms, great as it undoubtedly is, is 
trifling in comparison with the advance of opinion. The great 
strength of slavery was a superstition, which is fast losing its hold on 
the public mind. When it was first proposed to raise negro regiments, 
there were many even patriotic men who felt as the West Saxons did 
at seeing their high-priest hurl his lance against the temple of their 
idol. They were sure something terrible, they knew not what, 
would follow. But the earth stood firm, the heavens gave no sign, 
and presently they joined in making a bonfire of their bugbear. 
That we should employ the material of the rebellion for its own de- 
struction, seems now the merest truism. In the same way men's 
minds are growing wonted to the thought of emancipation ; and great 
as are the difficulties which must necessarily accompany and follow 
so vast a measure, we have no doubt that they will be successfully 
overcome. The point of interest and importance is, that the feeling 
of the country in regard to slavery is no whim of sentiment, but a 
settled conviction, and that the tendency of opinion is unmistakably 
and irrevocably in one direction, no less in the Border Slave States 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 559 

than in the Free. The chances of the war, which at one time seemed 
against us, are now greatly in our favor. The nation is more thor- 
oughly united against any shameful or illusory peace than it ever was 
on any other question, and the very extent of the territory to be sub- 
dued, which was the most serious cause of misgiving, is no longer 
an element of strength, but of disintegration, to the conspiracy. 
The Rebel leaders can make no concessions; the country is unani- 
mously resolved that the war shall be prosecuted, at whatever cost; 
and if the war go on, will it leave slavery with any formidable strength 
in the South ? and without that, need there be any fear of effective 
opposition in the North? 

While every day was bringing the people nearer to the conclusion 
which all thinking men saw to be inevitable from the beginning, it was 
wise in Mr. Lincoln to leave the shaping of his policy to events. In 
this country, where the rough and ready understanding of the people 
is sure at last to be the controlling power, a profound common-sense is 
the best genius for statesmanship. Hitherto the wisdom of the 
President's measures has been justified by the fact that they have 
always resulted in more firmly uniting public opinion 

If Mr. Lincoln continue to act with the firmness and prudence 
which have hitherto distinguished him, we think he has little to fear 
from the efforts of the opposition. Men without sincere convictions 
are hardly likely to have a well-defined and settled policy, and the 
blunders they have hitherto committed must make them cautious. 
If their personal hostility to the President be unabated, we may 
safely count on their leniency to the opinion of majorities, and the 
drift of public sentiment is too strong to be mistaken. They have 
at last discovered that there is such a thing as Country, which has a 
meaning for men's minds and a hold upon their hearts; they may 
make the further discovery, that this is a revolution that has been 
forced on us, and not merely a civil war. In any event, an opposition 
is a wholesome thing; and we are only sorry that this is not a more 
wholesome opposition. 

We believe it is the general judgment of the country on the acts 
of the present administration, that they have been, in the main, 
judicious and well-timed. The only doubt about some of them seems 
to be as to their constitutionality. It has been sometimes objected 
to our form of government, that it was faulty in having a written 



560 AMERICAN PROSE 



constitution which could not adapt itself to the needs of the time as 
they arose. But we think it rather a theoretic than a practical 
objection; for in point of fact there has been hardly a leading measure 
of any administration that has not been attacked as unconstitutional, 
and which was not carried nevertheless. Purchase of Louisiana, 
Embargo, Removal of the Deposits, Annexation of Texas, not to 
speak of others less important, — on the unconstitutionality of all 
these, powerful parties have appealed to the country, and invariably 
the decision has been against them. The will of the people for the 
time being has always carried it. In the present instance, we pur- 
posely refrain from any allusion to the moral aspects of the question. 
We prefer to leave the issue to experience and common sense. Has 
any sane man ever doubted on which side the chances were in this 
contest ? Can any sane man who has watched the steady advances 
of opinion, forced onward slowly by the immitigable logic of facts, 
doubt what the decision of the people will be in this matter ? The 
Southern conspirators have played a desperate stake, and, if they 
had won, would have bent the whole policy of the country to the 
interests of slavery. Filibustering would have been nationalized, 
and the slave-trade re-established as the most beneficent form of 
missionary enterprise. But if they lose? They have, of their 
own choice, put the chance into our hands of making this conti- 
nent the empire of a great homogeneous population, substantially one 
in race, language, and religion, — the most prosperous and powerful 
of nations. Is there a doubt what the decision of a victorious people 
will be? If we were base enough to decline the great commission 
which Destiny lays on us, should we not deserve to be ranked with 
those dastards whom the stern Florentine condemns as hateful alike 
to God and God's enemies? 

We would not be understood as speaking lightly of the respect 
due to constitutional forms, all the more essential under a government 
like ours and in times like these. But where undue respect for the 
form will lose us the substance, and where the substance, as in this 
case, is nothing less than the country itself, to be over-scrupulous 
would be unwise. Who are most tender in their solicitude that we 
keep sacred the letter of the law, in order that its spirit may not keep 
us alive? Mr. Jefferson Davis and those who, in the Free States, 
would have been his associates, but must content themselves with 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 56 1 

being his political guerilleros. If Davis had succeeded, would he have 
had any scruples of constitutional delicacy? And if he has not 
succeeded, is it not mainly owing to measures which his disappointed 
partisans denounce as unconstitutional ? 

We cannot bring ourselves to think that Mr. Lincoln has done 
anything that would furnish a precedent dangerous to our liberties, 
or in any way overstepped the just limits of his constitutional dis- 
cretion. If his course has been unusual, it was because the danger 
was equally so. It cannot be so truly said that he has strained his 
prerogative, as that the imperious necessity has exercised its own. 
Surely the framers of the Constitution never dreamed that they were 
making a strait waistcoat, in which the nation was to lie helpless 
while traitors were left free to do their will. In times like these, men 
seldom settle precisely the principles on which they shall act, but 
rather adjust those on which they have acted to the lines of precedent 
as well as they can after the event. This is what the English Parlia- 
ment did in the Act of Settlement. Congress, after all, will only be 
called on for the official draft of an enactment, the terms of which 
have been already decided by agencies beyond their control. Even 
while they are debating, the current is sweeping them on toward new 
relations of policy. At worst, a new precedent is pretty sure of 
pardon, if it successfully meet a new occasion. It is a harmless 
pleasantry to call Mr. Lincoln "Abraham the First," — we remember 
when a similar title was applied to President Jackson; and it will 
not be easy, we suspect, to persuade a people who have more liberty 
than they know what to do with, that they are the victims of despotic 
tyranny. 

Mr. Lincoln probably thought it more convenient, to say the 
least, to have a country left without a constitution, than a constitution 
without a country. We have no doubt we shall save both; for if we 
take care of the one, the other will take care of itself. Sensible men, 
and it is the sensible men in any country who at last shape its policy, 
will be apt to doubt whether it is true conservatism, after the fire 
is got under, to insist on keeping up the flaw in the chimney by 
which it made its way into the house. Radicalism may be a very 
dangerous thing, and so is calomel, but not when it is the only means 
of saving the life of the patient. Names are of great influence in 
ordinary times, when they are backed by the vis inertia of lifelong 



562 AMERICAN PROSE 



prejudice, but they have little power in comparison with a sense of 
interest ; and though, in peaceful times, it may be highly respectable 
to be conservative merely for the sake of being so, though without 
very clear notions of anything in particular to be conserved, what we 
want now is the prompt decision that will not hesitate between the 
bale of silk and the ship when a leak is to be stopped. If we succeed 
in saving the great landmarks of freedom, there will be no difficulty 
in settling our constitutional boundaries again. We have no sym- 
pathy to spare for the pretended anxieties of men who, only two 
years gone, were willing that Jefferson Davis should break all the 
ten commandments together, and would now impeach Mr. Lincoln 
for a scratch on the surface of the tables where they are engraved. 

We cannot well understand the theory which seems to allow the 
Rebels some special claim to protection by the very Constitution 
which they rose in arms to destroy. Still less can we understand the 
apprehensions of many persons lest the institution of slavery should 
receive some detriment, as if it were the balance-wheel of our system, 
instead of its single element of disturbance. We admit that we 
always have thought, and think still, that the great object of the war 
should be the restoration of the Union at all hazards, and at any 
sacrifice short of honor. And however many honest men may scruple 
as to law, there can be no doubt that we are put under bonds of 
honor by the President's proclamation. If the destruction of slavery 
is to be a consequence of the war, shall we regret it ? If it be needful 
to the successful prosecution of the war, shall any one oppose it ? 
Is it out of the question to be constitutional, without putting the 
slaveholders back precisely where they were before they began the 
rebellion? This seems to be the ground taken by the opposition, 
but it becomes more and more certain that the people, instructed by 
the experience of the past three years, will never consent to any 
plan of adjustment that does not include emancipation. If Congress 
need any other precedent than salus populi supremo, lex for giving 
the form and force of law to the public will, they may find one in the 
act of Parliament which abolished the feudal privileges of the High- 
land chiefs in 1747. A great occasion is not to be quibbled with, but 
to be met with that clear-sighted courage which deprives all objections 
of their force, if it does not silence them. To stop short of the only 
measure that can by any possibility be final and decisive, would be to 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 563 

pronounce rebellion a harmless eccentricity. To interpret the Consti- 
tution has hitherto been the exclusive prerogative of Slavery: it 
will be strange if Freedom cannot find a clause in it that will serve 
her purpose. To scruple at disarming our deadliest foe, would be 
mere infatuation. We can conceive of nothing parallel, except to 
have had it decided that the arrest of Guy Fawkes and the confisca- 
tion of his materials were a violation of Magna Charta; that he 
should be put back in the cellar of Westminster palace, his gun- 
powder, his matches, his dark-lantern, restored to him, with handsome 
damages for his trouble, and Parliament assembled overhead to give 
him another chance for the free exercise of his constitutional rights. 

We believe, and our belief is warranted by experience, that all 
measures will be found to have been constitutional at last on which 
the people are overwhelmingly united. We must not lose sight of the 
fact, that whatever is ex^ra-constitutional is not necessarily ^con- 
stitutional. The recent proclamation of amnesty will, we have no 
doubt, in due time bring a vast accession of strength to the emancipa- 
tionists from the slaveholding States themselves. The danger of 
slavery has always been in the poor whites of the South; and wherever 
freedom of the press penetrates, — and it always accompanies our 
armies, — the evil thing is doomed. Let no one who remembers 
what has taken place in Maryland and Missouri think such antici- 
pations visionary. The people of the South have been also put to 
school during these three years, under a sharper schoolmistress, too, 
than even ours has been, and the deadliest enemies of slavery will 
be found among those who have suffered most from its indirect 
evils. It is only by its extinction — for without it no secure union 
would be possible — that the sufferings and losses of the war can be 
repaid. That extinction accomplished, our wounds will not be long 
in healing. Apart from the slaveholding class, which is numerically 
small, and would be socially insignificant without its privileges, there 
are no such mutual antipathies between the two sections as the 
conspirators, to suit their own purposes, have asserted, and even 
done their best to excite. We do not like the Southerners less for the 
gallantry and devotion they have shown even in a bad cause, and they 
have learned to respect the same qualities in us. There is no longer 
the nonsensical talk about Cavaliers and Puritans, nor does the one 
gallant Southron any longer pine for ten Yankees as the victims of his 



564 AMERICAN PROSE 



avenging steel. As for subjugation, when people are beaten they are 
beaten, and every nation has had its turn. No sensible man in the 
North would insist on any terms except such as are essential to assure 
the stability of peace. To talk of the South as our future Poland is 
is to talk without book; for no region rich, prosperous, and free could 
ever become so. It is a geographical as well as a moral absurdity. 
With peace restored, slavery rooted out, and harmony sure to follow, 
we shall realize a power and prosperity beyond even the visions of 
the Fourth of July orator, and we shall see Freedom, while she 
proudly repairs the ruins of war, as the Italian poet saw her, — 

" Girar la Liberta mirai 
E baciar lieta ogni ruina e dire 
Ruine si, ma servitu non mai." 

CARLYLE 

A feeling of comical sadness is likely to come over the mind of 
any middle-aged man who sets himself to recollecting the names of 
different authors that have been famous, and the number of con- 
temporary immortalities whose end he has seen since coming to man- 
hood. Many a light, hailed by too careless observers as a fixed star, 
has proved to be only a short-lived lantern at the tail of a newspaper 
kite. That literary heaven which our youth saw dotted thick 
with rival glories, we find now to have been a stage-sky merely, 
artificially enkindled from behind; and the cynical daylight which is 
sure to follow all theatrical enthusiasms shows us ragged holes where 
once were luminaries, sheer vacancy instead of lustre. Our earthly 
reputations, says a great poet, are the color of grass, and the same 
sun that makes the green bleaches it out again. But next morning 
is not the time to criticise the scene-painter's firmament, nor is it 
quite fair to examine coldly a part of some general illusion in the 
absence of that sympathetic enthusiasm, that self-surrender of the 
fancy, which made it what it was. It would not be safe for all neg- 
lected authors to comfort themselves in Wordsworth's fashion, infer- 
ring genius in an inverse proportion to public favor, and a high and 
solitary merit from the world's indifference. On the contrary, it 
would be more just to argue from popularity to a certain amount of 
real value, though it may not be of that permanent quality which 
insures enduring fame. The contemporary world and Wordsworth 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 565 

were both half right. He undoubtedly owned and worked the richest 
vein of his period; but he offered to his contemporaries a heap of 
gold-bearing quartz where the baser mineral made the greater show, 
and the purchaser must do his own crushing and smelting, with no 
guaranty but the bare word of the miner. It was not enough that 
certain bolder adventurers should now and then show a nugget 
in proof of the success of their venture. The gold of the poet must 
be refined, moulded, stamped with the image and superscription of his 
time, but with a beauty of design and finish that are of no time. 
The work must surpass the material. Wordsworth was wholly void 
of that shaping imagination which is the highest criterion of a poet. 
Immediate popularity and lasting fame, then, would seem to be 
the result of different qualities, and not of mere difference in degree. 
It is safe to prophesy a certain durability of recognition for any author 
who gives evidence of intellectual force, in whatever kind, above the 
average amount. There are names in literary history which are 
only names; and the works associated with them, like acts of Con- 
gress already agreed on in debate, are read by their titles and passed. 
What is it that insures what may be called living fame, so that a book 
shall be at once famous and read ? What is it that relegates divine 
Cowley to that remote, uncivil Pontus of the "British Poets," and 
keeps garrulous Pepys within the cheery circle of the evening lamp and 
fire ? Originality, eloquence, sense, imagination, not one of them is 
enough by itself, but only in some happy mixture and proportion. 
Imagination seems to possess in itself more of the antiseptic property 
than any other single quality; but, without less showy and more 
substantial allies, it can at best give only deathlessness, without 
the perpetual youth that makes it other than dreary. It were easy 
to find examples of this Tithonus immortality, setting its victims 
apart from both gods and men; helpless duration, undying, to be 
sure, but sapless and voiceless also, and long ago deserted by the 
fickle Hemera. And yet chance could confer that gift on Glaucus, 
which love and the consent of Zeus failed to secure for the darling of 
the dawn. Is it mere luck, then ? Luck may, and often does, have 
some share in ephemeral successes, as in a gambler's winnings spent 
as soon as got, but not in any lasting triumph over time. Solid 
success must be based on solid qualities and the honest culture of 
them. 



566 AMERICAN PROSE 



The first element of contemporary popularity is undoubtedly the 
power of entertaining. If a man have anything to tell, the world 
cannot be expected to listen to him unless he have perfected himself 
in the best way of telling it. People are not to be argued into a 
pleasurable sensation, nor is taste to be compelled by any syllogism, 
however stringent. An author may make himself very popular, how- 
ever, and even justly so, by appealing to the passion of the moment, 
without having anything in him that shall outlast the public whim 
which he satisfies. Churchill is a remarkable example of this. He 
had a surprising extemporary vigor of mind; his phrase carries great 
weight of blow; he undoubtedly surpassed all contemporaries, as 
Cowper says of him, in a certain rude and earth-born vigor; but his 
verse is dust and ashes now, solemnly inurned, of course, in the 
Chalmers columbarium, and without danger of violation. His brawn 
and muscle are fading traditions now, while the fragile, shivering 
genius of Cowper is still a good life on the books of the Critical 
Insurance Office. "Is it not, then, loftiness of mind that puts one 
by the side of Virgil?" cries poor old Cavalcanti at his wits' end. 
Certainly not altogether that. There must be also the great Man- 
tuan's art; his power, not only of being strong in parts, but of making 
those parts coherent in an harmonious whole, and tributary to it. 
Gray, if we may believe the commentators, has not an idea, scarcely 
an epithet, that he can call his own; and yet he is, in the best sense, 
one of the classics of English literature. He had exquisite felicity 
of choice; his dictionary had no vulgar word in it, no harsh one, but 
all culled from the luckiest moods of poets, and with a faint but 
delicious aroma of association; he had a perfect sense of sound, and 
one idea without which all the poetic outfit (si absit prudentia) is of 
little avail, — that of combination and arrangement, in short, of art. 
The poets from whom he helped himself have no more claim to any 
of his poems as wholes, than the various beauties of Greece (if the 
old story were true) to the Venus of the artist. 

Imagination, as we have said, has more virtue to keep a book 
alive than any other single faculty. Burke is rescued from the usual 
doom of orators, because his learning, his experience, his sagacity 
are rimmed with a halo by this bewitching light behind the intellectual 
eye from the highest heaven of the brain. Shakespeare has impreg- 
nated his common sense with the steady glow of it, and answers the 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 567 

mood of youth and age, of high and low, immortal as that dateless 
substance of the soul he wrought in. To have any chance of lasting, 
a book must satisfy, not merely some fleeting fancy of the day, but a 
constant longing and hunger of human nature; and it needs only a 
superficial study of literature to be convinced that real fame depends 
rather on the sum of an author's powers than on any brilliancy of 
special parts. There must be wisdom as well as wit, sense no less than 
imagination, judgment in equal measure with fancy, and the fiery 
rocket must be bound fast to its poor wooden stick if it would mount 
and draw all eyes. There are some who think that the brooding 
patience which a great work calls for belonged exclusively to an 
earlier period than ours. Others lay the blame on our fashion of 
periodical publication, which necessitates a sensation and a crisis 
in every number, and forces the writer to strive for startling effects, 
instead of that general lowness of tone which is the last achievement 
of the artist. The simplicity of antique passion, the homeliness of 
antique pathos, seem not merely to be gone out of fashion, but out of 
being as well. Modern poets appear rather to tease their words into 
a fury, than to infuse them with the deliberate heats of their matured 
conception, and strive to replace the rapture of the mind with a fervid 
intensity of phrase. Our reaction from the decorous platitudes of the 
last century has no doubt led us to excuse this, and to be thankful 
for something like real fire, though of stubble; but our prevailing style 
of criticism, which regards parts rather than wholes, which dwells 
on the beauty of passages, and, above all, must have its languid 
nerves pricked with the expected sensation at whatever cost, has 
done all it could to confirm us in our evil way. Passages are good 
when they lead to something, when they are necessary parts of the 
building, but they are not good to dwell in. This taste for the start- 
ling reminds us of something which happened once at the burning 
of a country meeting-house. The building stood on a hill, and, apart 
from any other considerations, the fire was as picturesque as could be 
desired. When all was a black heap, licking itself here and there 
with tongues of fire, there rushed up a farmer gasping anxiously, 
"Hez the bell fell yit ?" An ordinary fire was no more to him than 
that on his hearthstone; even the burning of a meeting-house, in 
itself a vulcanic rarity, (so long as he was of another parish,) could 
not tickle his outworn palate; but he had hoped for a certain tang in 



568 AMERICAN PROSE 



the downcome of the bell that might recall the boyish flavor of con- 
flagration. There was something dramatic, no doubt, in this surprise 
of the brazen sentinel at his post, but the breathless rustic has always 
seemed to us a type of the prevailing delusion in aesthetics. Alas! 
if the bell must fall in every stanza or every monthly number, how 
shall an author contrive to stir us at last, unless with whole Moscows, 
crowned with the tintinnabulary crash of the Kremlin? For our- 
selves, we are glad to feel that we are still able to find contentment in 
the more conversational and domestic tone of our old-fashioned 
wood-fire. No doubt a great part of our pleasure in reading is 
unexpectedness, whether in turn of thought or of phrase; but an 
emphasis out of place, an intensity of expression not founded on 
sincerity of moral or intellectual conviction, remind one of the under 
scorings in young ladies' letters, a wonder even to themselves under the 
colder north-light of matronage. It is the part of the critic, however, 
to keep cool under whatever circumstances, and to reckon that the 
excesses of an author will be at first more attractive to the many than 
that average power which shall win him attention with a new genera- 
tion of men. It is seldom found out by the majority, till after a 
considerable interval, that he was the original man who contrived 
to be simply natural, — the hardest lesson in the school of art and the 
latest learned, if, indeed, it be a thing capable of acquisition at all. 
The most winsome and wayward of brooks draws now and then some 
lover's foot to its intimate reserve, while the spirt of a bursting 
water-pipe gathers a gaping crowd forthwith. 

Mr. Carlyle is an author who has now been so long before the 
world, that we may feel toward him something of the unprejudice 
of posterity. It has long been evident that he had no more ideas 
to bestow upon us, and that no new turn of his kaleidoscope 
would give us anything but some variation of arrangement 
in the brilliant colors of his style. It is perhaps possible, then, to 
arrive at some not wholly inadequate estimate of his place as a 
writer, and especially of the value of the ideas whose advocate he 
makes himself, with a bitterness and violence that increase, as it 
seems to us, in proportion as his inward conviction of their truth 
diminishes. 

The leading characteristics of an author who is in any sense 
original, that is to say, who does not merely reproduce, but modifies 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 569 

the influence of tradition, culture, and contemporary thought upon 
himself by some admixture of his own, may commonly be traced 
more or less clearly in his earliest works. This is more strictly true, 
no doubt, of poets, because the imagination is a fixed quantity, not 
to be increased by any amount of study and reflection. Skill, wisdom, 
and even wit are cumulative; but that diviner faculty, which is the 
spiritual eye, though it may be trained and sharpened, cannot be 
added to by taking thought. This has always been something 
innate, unaccountable, to be laid to a happy conjunction of the stars. 
Goethe, the last of the great poets, accordingly takes pains to tell us 
under what planets he was born; and in him it is curious how uniform 
the imaginative quality is from the beginning to the end of his long 
literary activity. His early poems show maturity, his mature ones 
a youthful freshness. The apple already lies potentially in the 
blossom, as that may be traced also in the ripened fruit. With a 
mere change of emphasis, Goethe might be called an old boy at 
both ends of his career. 

In the earliest authorship of Mr. Carlyle we find some not 
obscure hints of the future man. Nearly fifty years ago he con- 
tributed a few literary and critical articles to the Edinburgh Encyclo- 
paedia. The outward fashion of them is that of the period; but they 
are distinguished by a certain security of judgment remarkable at 
any time, remarkable especially in one so young. British criticism 
has been always more or less parochial; has never, indeed, quite 
freed itself from sectarian cant and planted itself honestly on the 
aesthetic point of view. It cannot quite persuade itself that truth 
is of immortal essence, totally independent of all assistance from 
quarterly journals or the British army and navy. Carlyle, in these 
first essays, already shows the influence of his master, Goethe, the 
most widely receptive of critics. In a compact notice of Montaigne, 
there is not a word as to his religious scepticism. The character is 
looked at purely from its human and literary sides. As illustrating 
the bent of the author's mind the following passage is most to our 
purpose: "A modern reader will not easily cavil at the patient and 
good-natured, though exuberant egotism which brings back to our 
view 'the form and pressure' of a time long past. The habits and 
humors, the mode of acting and thinking, which characterized a Gascon 
gentleman in the sixteenth century, cannot fail to amuse an inquirer of the 



570 AMERICAN PROSE 



nineteenth; while the faithful delineation of human feelings, in all their 
strength and weakness, will serve as a mirror to every mind capable of 
self-examination." We find here no uncertain indication of that eye 
for the moral picturesque, and that sympathetic appreciation of 
character, which within the next few years were to make Carlyle the 
first in insight of English critics and the most vivid of English histori- 
ans. In all his earlier writing he never loses sight of his master's great 
rule, Den Gegenstand fest zu halten. He accordingly gave to English- 
men the first humanly possible likeness of Voltaire, Diderot, Mirabeau, 
and others, who had hitherto been measured by the usual British 
standard of their respect for the geognosy of Moses and the historic 
credibility of the Books of Chronicles. What was the real meaning 
of this phenomenon? what the amount of this man's honest per- 
formance in the world ? and in what does he show that family-likeness, 
common to all the sons of Adam, which gives us a fair hope of being 
able to comprehend him? These were the questions which Carlyle 
seems to have set himself honestly to answer in the critical writings 
which fill the first period of his life as a man of letters. In this 
mood he rescued poor Boswell from the unmerited obliquy of an 
ungrateful generation, and taught us to see something half-comically 
beautiful in the poor, weak creature, with his pathetic instinct of 
reverence for what was nobler, wiser, and stronger than himself. 
Everything that Mr. Carlyle wrote during this first period thrills 
with the purest appreciation of whatever is brave and beautiful in 
human nature, with the most vehement scorn of cowardly compromise 
with things base ; and yet, immitigable as his demand for the highest 
in us seems to be, there is always something reassuring in the humor- 
ous sympathy with mortal frailty which softens condemnation and 
consoles for shortcoming. The remarkable feature of Mr. Carlyle's 
criticism (see, for example, his analysis and exposition of Goethe's 
"Helena") is the sleuth-hound instinct with which he presses on to 
the matter of his theme, — never turned aside by a false scent, regard- 
less of the outward beauty of form, sometimes almost' contemptuous 
of it, in his hunger after the intellectual nourishment which it may 
hide. The delicate skeleton of admirably articulated and related 
parts which underlies and sustains every true work of art, and keeps 
it from sinking on itself a shapeless heap, he would crush remorselessly 
to come at the marrow of meaning. With him the ideal sense is 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 571 

secondary to the ethical and metaphysical, and he has but a faint 
conception of their possible unity. 

By degrees the humorous element in his nature gains ground, till 
it overmasters all the rest. Becoming always more boisterous and 
obtrusive, it ends at last, as such humor must, in cynicism. In 
"Sartor Resartus" it is still kindly, still infused with sentiment; and 
the book, with its mixture of indignation and farce, strikes one as 
might the prophecies of Jeremiah, if the marginal comments of the 
Rev. Dr. Sterne in his wildest mood had by some accident been incor- 
porated with the text. In "Sartor" the marked influence of Jean 
Paul is undeniable, both in matter and manner. It is curious for 
one who studies the action and reaction of national literatures on 
each other, to see the humor of Swift and Sterne and Fielding, after 
filtering through Richter, reappear in Carlyle with a tinge of German- 
ism that makes it novel, alien, or even displeasing, as the case 
may be, to the English mind. Unhappily the bit of mother 
from Swift's vinegar-barrel has had strength enough to sour all 
the rest. The whimsicality of "Tristram Shandy," which, even 
in the original, has too often the effect of forethought, becomes 
a deliberate artifice in Richter, and at last a mere mannerism in 
Carlyle. 

Mr. Carlyle in his critical essays had the advantage of a well- 
defined theme, and of limits both in the subject and in the space allowed 
for its treatment, which kept his natural extravagance within bounds, 
and compelled some sort of discretion and compactness. The great 
merit of these essays lay in a criticism based on wide and various 
study, which, careless of tradition, applied its standard to the real 
and not the contemporary worth of the literary or other performance 
to be judged, and in an unerring eye for that fleeting expression of the 
moral features of character, a perception of which alone makes the 
drawing of a coherent likeness possible. Their defect was a tendency, 
gaining strength with years, to confound the moral with the aesthetic 
standard, and to make the value of an author's work dependent on the 
general force of his nature rather than on its special fitness for a given 
task. In proportion as his humor gradually overbalanced the other 
qualities of his mind, his taste for the eccentric, amorphous, and 
violent in men became excessive, disturbing more and more his per- 
ception of the more commonplace attributes which give consistency 



572 AMERICAN PROSE 



to portraiture. His " French Revolution " is a series of lurid pictures, 
unmatched for vehement power, in which the figures of such sons of 
earth as Mirabeau and Danton loom gigantic and terrible as in the 
glare of an eruption, their shadows swaying far and wide grotesquely 
awful. But all is painted by eruption-flashes in violent light and 
shade. There are no half-tints, no gradations, and we find it impos- 
sible to account for the continuance in power of less Titanic actors in 
the tragedy like Robespierre, on any theory whether of human 
nature or of individual character supplied by Mr. Carlyle. Of his 
success, however, in accomplishing what he aimed at, which was to 
haunt the mind with memories of a horrible political nightmare, there 
can be no doubt. 

Goethe says, apparently thinking of Richter, "The worthy 
Germans have persuaded themselves that the essence of true humor 
is formlessness." Heine had not yet shown that a German might 
combine the most airy humor with a sense of form as delicate as 
Goethe's own, and that there was no need to borrow the bow of 
Philoctetes for all kinds of game. Mr. Carlyle's own tendency was 
toward the lawless, and the attraction of Jean Paul made it an over- 
mastering one. Goethe, we think, might have gone farther, and 
affirmed that nothing but the highest artistic sense can prevent 
humor from degenerating into the grotesque, and thence downwards 
to utter formlessness. Rabelais is a striking example of it. The 
moral purpose of his book cannot give it that unity which the instinct 
and forethought of art only can bring forth. Perhaps we owe the 
masterpiece of humorous literature to the fact that Cervantes had 
been trained to authorship in a school where form predominated 
over substance, and the most convincing proof of the supremacy 
of art at the highest period of Greek literature is to be found in Aris- 
tophanes. Mr. Carlyle has no artistic sense of form or rhythm, 
scarcely of proportion. Accordingly he looks on verse with con- 
tempt as something barbarous, — the savage ornament which a higher 
refinement will abolish, as it has tattooing and nose-rings. With a 
conceptive imagination vigorous beyond any in his generation, with 
a mastery of language equalled only by the greatest poets, he wants 
altogether the plastic imagination, the shaping faculty, which would 
have made him a poet in the highest sense. He is a preacher and a 
prophet, — anything you will, — but an artist he is not, and never can 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 573 

be. It is always the knots and gnarls of the oak that he admires, 
never the perfect and balanced tree. 

It is certainly more agreeable to be grateful for what we owe 
an author, than to blame him for what he cannot give us. But it is 
the business of a critic to trace faults of style and of thought to their 
root in character and temperament, — to show their necessary rela- 
tion to, and dependence on, each other, — and to find some more 
trustworthy explanation than mere wantonness of will for the moral 
obliquities of a man so largely moulded and gifted as Mr. Carlyle. 
So long as he was merely an exhorter or dehorter, we were thankful 
for such eloquence, such humor, such vivid or grotesque images, and 
such splendor of illustration as only he could give; but when he 
assumes to be a teacher of moral and political philosophy, when he 
himself takes to compounding the social panaceas he has made us 
laugh at so often, and advertises none as genuine but his own, we 
begin to inquire into his qualifications and his defects, and to ask our- 
selves whether his patent pill differ from others except in the larger 
amount of aloes, or have any better recommendation than the supe- 
rior advertising powers of a mountebank of genius. Comparative 
criticism teaches us that moral and aesthetic defects are more nearly 
related than is commonly supposed. Had Mr. Carlyle been fitted out 
completely by nature as an artist, he would have had an ideal in his 
work which would have lifted his mind away from the muddier part 
of him, and trained him to the habit of seeking and seeing the harmony 
rather than the discord and contradiction of things. His innate 
love of the picturesque, (which is only another form of the senti- 
mentalism he so scoffs at, perhaps as feeling it a weakness in himself,) 
once turned in the direction of character, and finding its chief satis- 
faction there, led him to look for that ideal of human nature in 
individual men which is but fragmentarily represented in the entire 
race, and is rather divined from the aspiration, forever disenchanted 
to be forever renewed, of the immortal part in us, than found in any 
example of actual achievement. A wiser temper would have found 
something more consoling than disheartening in the continual failure 
of men eminently endowed to reach the standard of this spiritual 
requirement, would perhaps have found in it an inspiring hint that it is 
mankind, and not special men, that are to be shaped at last into the 
image of God, and that the endless life of the generations may hope 



574 AMERICAN PROSE 



to come nearer that goal of which the short-breathed threescore 
years and ten fall too unhappily short. 

But Mr. Carlyle has invented the Hero-cure, and all who recom- 
mend any other method, or see any hope of healing elsewhere, are 
either quacks and charlatans or their victims. His lively imagination 
conjures up the image of an impossible he, as contradictorily endowed 
as the chief personage in a modern sentimental novel, and who, at 
all hazards, must not lead mankind like a shepherd, but bark, bite, 
and otherwise worry them toward the fold like a truculent sheep-dog. 
If Mr. Carlyle would only now and then recollect that men are men, 
and not sheep, — nay, that the farther they are from being such, the 
more well grounded our hope of one day making something better 
of them ! It is indeed strange that one who values Will so highly in the 
greatest, should be blind to its infinite worth in the least of men; 
nay, that he should so often seem to confound it with its irritable and 
purposeless counterfeit, Wilfulness. The natural impatience of an 
imaginative temperament, which conceives so vividly the beauty and 
desirableness of a nobler manhood and a diviner political order, makes 
him fret at the slow moral processes by which the All-Wise brings 
about his ends, and turns the very foolishness of men to his praise 
and glory. Mr. Carlyle is for calling down fire from Heaven whenever 
he cannot readily lay his hand on the match-box. No doubt it is 
somewhat provoking that it should be so easy to build castles in the 
air, and so hard to find tenants for them. It is a singular intellectual 
phenomenon to see a man, who earlier in life so thoroughly appreci- 
ated the innate weakness and futile tendency of the "storm and 
thrust" period of German literature, constantly assimilating, as he 
grows older, more and more nearly to its principles and practice. It 
is no longer the sagacious and moderate Goethe who is his type of 
what is highest in human nature, but far rather some Gotz of the 
Iron Hand, some assertor of the divine legitimacy of Faustrecht. 
It is odd to conceive the fate of Mr. Carlyle under the sway of any 
of his heroes, — how Cromwell would have scorned him as a babbler 
more long-winded than Prynne, but less clear and practical, — how 
Friedrich would have scoffed at his tirades as dummes Zeug not to be 
compared with the romances of Crebillon^, or possibly have clapped 
him in a marching regiment as a fit subject for the cane of the sergeant. 
Perhaps something of Mr. Carlyle's irritability is to be laid to the 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 575 

account of his early schoolmastership at Ecclefechan. This great 
booby World is such a dull boy, and will not learn the lesson we have 
taken such pains in expounding for the fiftieth time. Well, then, 
if eloquence, if example, if the awful warning of other little boys who 
neglected their accidence and came to the gallows, if none of these 
avail, the birch at least is left, and we will try that. The dominie 
spirit has become every year more obtrusive and intolerant in Mr. 
Carlyle's writing, and the rod, instead of being kept in its place as a 
resource for desperate cases, has become the alpha and omega of all 
successful training, the one divinely-appointed means of human 
enlightenment and progress, — in short, the final hope of that absurd 
animal who fancies himself a little lower than the angels. Have we 
feebly taken it for granted that the distinction of man was reason ? 
Never was there a more fatal misconception. It is in the gift of unreason 
that we are unenviably distinguished from the brutes, whose nobler 
privilege of instinct saves them from our blunders and our crimes. 
But since Mr. Carlyle has become possessed with the hallucina- 
tion that he is head-master of this huge boys' school which we call the 
world, his pedagogic birch has grown to the taller proportions and 
more ominous aspect of a gallows. His article on Dr. Francia was a 
panegyric of the halter, in which the gratitude of mankind is invoked 
for the self-appointed dictator who had discovered in Paraguay a 
tree more beneficent than that which produced the Jesuits' bark. 
Mr. Carlyle seems to be in the condition of a man who uses stimu- 
lants, and must increase his dose from day to day as the senses 
become dulled under the spur. He began by admiring strength of 
character and purpose, and the manly self-denial which makes a 
humble fortune great by steadfast loyalty to duty. He has gone on 
till mere strength has become such washy weakness that there is no 
longer any titillation in it; and nothing short of downright violence 
will rouse his nerves now to the needed excitement. At first he 
made out very well with remarkable men; then, lessening the water 
and increasing the spirit, he took to Heroes: and now he must have 
downright inhumanity, or the draught has no savor; — so he gets 
on at last to Kings, types of remorseless Force, who maintain the 
political views of Berserkers by the legal principles of Lynch. Con- 
stitutional monarchy is a failure, representative government is a 
gabble, democracy a birth of the bottomless pit; there is no hope 



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for mankind except in getting themselves under a good driver who 
shall not spare the lash. And yet, unhappily for us, these drivers 
are providential births not to be contrived by any cunning of ours, 
and Friedrich II. is hitherto the last of them. Meanwhile the world's 
wheels have got fairly stalled in mire and other matter of every 
vilest consistency and most disgustful smell. What are we to do? 
Mr. Carlyle will not let us make a lever with a rail from the next fence, 
or call in the neighbors. That would be too commonplace and 
cowardly, too anarchical. No; he would have us sit down beside 
him in the slough and shout lustily for Hercules. If that indis- 
pensable demigod will not or cannot come, we can find a useful and 
instructive solace, during the intervals of shouting, in a hearty 
abuse of human nature, which, at the long last, is always to blame. 

Since "Sartor Resartus" Mr. Carlyle has done little but repeat 
himself with increasing emphasis and heightened shrillness. Warn- 
ing has steadily heated toward denunciation, and remonstrance 
soured toward scolding. The image of the Tartar prayer-mill, 
which he borrowed from Richter and turned to such humorous pur- 
pose, might be applied to himself. The same phrase comes round 
and round, only the machine, being a little crankier, rattles more, 
and the performer is called on for a more visible exertion. If there be 
not something very like cant in Mr. Carlyle's later writings, then 
cant is not the repetition of a creed after it has become a phrase 
by the cooling of that white-hot conviction which once made it both 
the light and warmth of the soul. We do not mean intentional 
and deliberate cant, but neither is that which Mr. Carlyle denounces 
so energetically in his fellow-men of that conscious kind. We do 
not mean to blame him for it, but mention it rather as an interesting 
phenomenon of human nature. The stock of ideas which mankind 
has to work with is very limited, like the alphabet, and can at best 
have an air of freshness given it by new arrangements and combina- 
tions, or by application to new times and circumstances. Montaigne 
is but Ecclesiastes writing in the sixteenth century, Voltaire but 
Lucian in the eighteenth. Yet both are original, and so certainly is 
Mr. Carlyle, whose borrowing is mainly from his own former works. 
But he does this so often and so openly, that we may at least be sure 
that he ceased growing a number of years ago, and is a remarkable 
example of arrested development. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 577 

The cynicism, however, which has now become the prevailing 
temper of his mind, has gone on expanding with unhappy vigor. 
In Mr. Carlyle it is not, probably, as in Swift, the result of personal 
disappointment, and of the fatal eye of an accomplice for the mean 
qualities by which power could be attained that it might be used for 
purposes as mean. It seems rather the natural corruption of his 
exuberant humor. Humor in its first analysis is a perception of the 
incongruous, and in its highest development, of the incongruity 
between the actual and the ideal in men and life. With so keen a 
sense of the ludicrous contrast between what men might be, nay, 
wish to be, and what they are, and with a vehement nature that 
demands the instant realization of his vision of a world altogether 
heroic, it is no wonder that Mr. Carlyle, always hoping for a thing 
and always disappointed, should become bitter. Perhaps if he 
expected less he would find more. Saul seeking his father's asses 
found himself turned suddenly into a king; but Mr. Carlyle, on 
the lookout for a king, always seems to find the other sort of animal. 
He sees nothing on any side of him but a procession of the Lord of 
Misrule, in gloomier moments, a Dance of Death, where everything 
is either a parody of whatever is noble, or an aimless jig that stumbles 
at last into the annihilation of the grave, and so passes from one 
nothing to another. Is a world, then, which buys and reads Mr. Car- 
lyle's works distinguished only for its "fair, large ears" ? If he who 
has read and remembered so much would only now and then call to 
mind the old proverb, Nee deus, nee lupus, sed homo! If he would 
only recollect that, from the days of the first grandfather, everybody 
has remembered a golden age behind him! 

The very qualities, it seems to us, which came so near making 
a great poet of Mr. Carlyle, disqualify him for the office of historian. 
The poet's concern is with the appearances of things, with their 
harmony in that whole which the imagination demands for its satis- 
faction, and their truth to that ideal nature which is the proper 
object of poetry. History, unfortunately, is very far from being 
ideal, still farther from an exclusive interest in those heroic or typical 
figures which answer all the wants of the epic and the drama and fill 
their utmost artistic limits. Mr. Carlyle has an unequalled power and 
vividness in painting detached scenes, in bringing out in their full 
relief the oddities or peculiarities of character; but he has a far 



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feebler sense of those gradual changes of opinion, that strange com- 
munication of sympathy from mind to mind, that subtile influence of 
very subordinate actors in giving a direction to policy or action, which 
we are wont somewhat vaguely to call the progress of events. His 
scheme of history is purely an epical one, where only leading figures 
appear by name and are in any strict sense operative. He has no 
conception of the people as anything else than an element of mere 
brute force in political problems, and would sniff scornfully at that 
unpicturesque common-sense of the many, which comes slowly to 
its conclusions, no doubt, but compels obedience even from rulers 
the most despotic when once its mind is made up. His history of 
Frederick is, of course, a Fritziad; but next to his hero, the cane of 
the drill-sergeant and iron ramrods appear to be the conditions which 
to his mind satisfactorily account for the result of the Seven Years 
War. It is our opinion, which subsequent events seem to justify, 
that, had there not been in the Prussian people a strong instinct of 
nationality, Protestant nationality too, and an intimate conviction 
of its advantages, the war might have ended quite otherwise. Freder- - 
ick II. left the machine of war which he received from his father even 
more perfect than he found it, yet within a few years of his death 
it went to pieces before the shock of French armies animated by an 
idea. Again a few years, and the Prussian soldiery, inspired once 
more by the old national fervor, were victorious.. Were it not for the 
purely picturesque bias of Mr. Carlyle's genius, for the necessity 
which his epical treatment lays upon him of always having a pro- 
tagonist, we should be astonished that an idealist like him should 
have so little faith in ideas and so much in matter. 

Mr. Carlyle's style is not so well suited to the historian as to the 
essayist. He is always great in single figures and detached scenes, 
but there is neither gradation nor continuity. He has extraordinary 
patience and conscientiousness in the gathering and sifting of his 
material, but is scornful of commonplace facts and characters, 
impatient of whatever will not serve for one of his clever sketches, 
or group well in a more elaborate figure-piece. He sees history, as it 
were, by flashes of lightning. A single scene, whether a landscape or 
an interior, a single figure or a wild mob of men, whatever may be 
snatched by the eye in that instant of intense illumination, is minutely 
photographed upon the memory. Every tree and stone, almost 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 579 

every blade of grass; every article of furniture in a room; the atti- 
tude or expression, nay, the very buttons and shoe-ties of a principal 
figure; the gestures of momentary passion in a wild throng, — every- 
thing leaps into vision under that sudden glare with a painful 
distinctness that leaves the retina quivering. The intervals are abso- 
lute darkness. Mr. Carlyle makes us acquainted with the isolated 
spot where we happen to be when the flash comes, as if by actual 
eyesight, but there is no possibility of a comprehensive view. No 
other writer compares with him for vividness. He is himself a wit- 
ness, and makes us witnesses of whatever he describes. This is genius 
beyond a question, and of a very rare quality, but it is not history. 
He has not the cold-blooded impartiality of the historian; and while 
he entertains us, moves us to tears or laughter, makes us the uncon- 
scious captives of his ever-changeful mood, we find that he has 
taught us comparatively little. His imagination is so powerful that 
it makes him the contemporary of his characters, and thus his 
history seems to be the memoirs of a cynical humorist, with hearty 
likes and dislikes, with something of acridity in his partialities 
whether for or against, more keenly sensitive to the grotesque than 
the simply natural, and who enters in his diary, even of what comes 
within the range of his own observation, only so much as amuses his 
fancy, is congenial with his humor, or feeds his prejudice. Mr. 
Carlyle's method is accordingly altogether descriptive, his hasty 
temper making narrative wearisome to him. In his Friedrich, for 
example, we get very little notion of the civil administration of 
Prussia; and when he comes, in the last volume, to his hero's dealings 
with civil reforms, he confesses candidly that it would tire him too much 
to tell us about it, even if he knew anything at all satisfactory himself. 
Mr. Carlyle's historical compositions are wonderful prose poems, 
full of picture, incident, humor, and character, where we grow familiar 
with his conception of certain leading personages, and even of sub- 
ordinate ones, if they are necessary to the scene, so that they come 
out living upon the stage from the dreary limbo of names; but this 
is no more history than the historical plays of Shakespeare. There is 
nothing in imaginative literature superior in its own way to the 
episode of Voltaire in the Fritziad. It is delicious in humor, masterly 
in minute characterization. We feel as if the principal victim (for 
we cannot help feeling all the while that he is so) of this mischievous 



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genius had been put upon the theatre before us by some perfect mimic 
like Foote, who had studied his habitual gait, gestures, tones, turn of 
thought, costume, trick of feature, and rendered them with the slight 
dash of caricature needful to make the whole composition tell. It is in 
such things that Mr. Carlyle is beyond all rivalry, and that we must 
go back to Shakespeare for a comparison. But the mastery of 
Shakespeare is shown perhaps more strikingly in his treatment of the 
ordinary than of the exceptional. His is the gracious equality of 
Nature herself. Mr. Carlyle's gift is rather in the representation 
than in the creation of character; and it is a necessity of his art, 
therefore, to exaggerate slightly his heroic, and to caricature in like 
manner his comic parts. His appreciation is less psychological than 
physical and external. Grimm relates that Garrick, riding once 
with Preville, proposed to him that they should counterfeit drunken- 
ness. They rode through Passy accordingly, deceiving all who saw 
them. When beyond the town Preville asked how he had succeeded. 
"Excellently," said Garrick, "as to your body; but your legs were 
not tipsy." Mr. Carlyle would be as exact in his observation of 
nature as the great actor, and would make us see a drunken man as 
well; but we doubt whether he could have conceived that unmatch- 
able scene in Antony and Cleopatra, where the tipsiness of Lepidus 
pervades the whole metaphysical no less than the physical part of the 
triumvir. If his sympathies bore any proportion to his instinct 
for catching those traits which are the expression of character, 
but not character itself, we might have had a great historian in him 
instead of a history-painter. 

But that which is a main element in Mr. Carlyle's talent, and 
does perhaps more than anything else to make it effective, is a defect 
of his nature. The cynicism which renders him so entertaining 
precludes him from any just conception of men and their motives, 
and from any sane estimate of the relative importance of the events 
which concern them. We remember a picture of Hamon's, where 
before a Punch's theatre are gathered the wisest of mankind in rapt 
attention. Socrates sits on a front bench, absorbed in the spectacle, 
and in the corner stands Dante entering his remarks in a note-book. 
Mr. Carlyle as an historian leaves us in somewhat such a mood. The 
world is a puppet-show, and when we have watched the play out, we 
depart with a half-comic consciousness of the futility of all human 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 581 

enterprise, and the ludicrousness of all man's action and passion on the 
stage of the world. Simple, kindly, blundering Oliver Goldsmith was 
after all wiser, and his Vicar, ideal as Hector and not less immortal, is 
a demonstration of the perennial beauty and heroism of the homeliest 
human nature. The cynical view is congenial to certain moods, and 
is so little inconsistent with original nobleness of mind, that it is not 
seldom the acetous fermentation of it; but it is the view of the 
satirist, not of the historian, and takes in but a narrow arc in the cir- 
cumference of truth. Cynicism in itself is essentially disagreeable. 
It is the intellectual analogue of the truffle; and though it may be 
very well in giving a relish to thought for certain palates, it cannot 
supply the substance of it. Mr. Carlyle's cynicism is not that polished 
weariness of the outsides of life which we find in Ecclesiastes. It goes 
much deeper than that to the satisfactions, not of the body or the 
intellect, but of the very soul itself. It vaunts itself; it is noisy and 
aggressive. What the wise master puts into the mouth of desperate 
ambition, thwarted of the fruit of its crime, as the fitting expression 
of passionate sophistry, seems to have become an article of his creed. 

With him 

"Life is a tale 
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing." 

He goes about with his Diogenes dark-lantern, professing to seek a 
man, but inwardly resolved to find a monkey. He loves to flash it 
suddenly on poor human nature in some ridiculous or degrading 
posture. He admires still, or keeps affirming that he admires, the 
doughty, silent, hard-working men who go honestly about their 
business; but when we come to examples, we find that it is not loyalty 
to duty or to an inward ideal of high-mindedness that he finds admir- 
able in them, but a blind unquestioning vassalage to whomsoever 
it has pleased him to set up for a hero. He would fain replace the 
old feudalism with a spiritual counterpart, in which there shall be an 
obligation to soul-service. He who once popularized the word flunkey 
by ringing the vehement changes of his scorn upon it, is at last forced 
to conceive an ideal flunkeyism to squire the hectoring Don Belianises 
of his fancy about the world. Failing this, his latest theory of Divine 
government seems to be the cudgel. Poets have sung all manner of 
vegetable loves; Petrarch has celebrated the laurel, Chaucer the 



582 AMERICAN PROSE 



daisy, and Wordsworth the gallows-tree; it remained for the ex- 
pedagogue of Ecclefechan to become the volunteer laureate of the 
rod and to imagine a world created and directed by a divine Dr. 
Busby. We cannot help thinking that Mr. Carlyle might have 
learned something to his advantage by living a few years in the 
democracy which he scoffs at as heartily a priori as if it were the 
demagogism which Aristophanes derided from experience. The Hero, 
as Mr. Carlyle understands him, was a makeshift of the past; and 
the ideal of manhood is to be found hereafter in free communities, 
where the state shall at length sum up and exemplify in itself all 
those qualities which poets were forced to imagine and typify because 
they could not find them in the actual world. 

In the earlier part of his literary career, Mr. Carlyle was the 
denouncer of shams, the preacher up of sincerity, manliness, and of 
a living faith, instead of a droning ritual. He had intense convic- 
tions, and he made disciples. With a compass of diction unequalled 
by any other public performer of the time, ranging as it did from the 
unbooked freshness of the Scottish peasant to the most far-sought 
phrase of literary curiosity, with hum'or, pathos, and eloquence at 
will, it was no wonder that he found eager listeners in a world longing 
for a sensation, and forced to put up with the West-End gospel of 
"Pelham." If not a profound thinker, he had what was next best,— - 
he felt profoundly, and his cry came out of the depths. The stern 
Calvinism of his early training was rekindled by his imagination to 
the old fervor of Wishart and Brown, and became a new phenomenon 
as he reproduced it subtilized by German transcendentalism and 
German culture. Imagination, if it lays hold of a Scotchman, 
possesses him in the old demoniac sense of the word, and that hard 
logical nature, if the Hebrew fire once gets fair headway in it, burns 
unquenchable as an anthracite coal-mine. But to utilize these 
sacred heats, to employ them, as a literary man is always tempted, 
to keep the domestic pot a-boiling, — is such a thing possible ? Only 
too possible, we fear; and Mr. Carlyle is an example of it. If the 
languid public long for a sensation, the excitement of making one 
becomes also a necessity of the successful author, as the intellectual 
nerves grow duller and the old inspiration that came unbidden to the 
bare garret grows shier and shier of the comfortable parlor. As he 
himself said thirty years ago of Edward Irving, "Unconsciously, for 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 583 

the most part in deep unconsciousness, there was now the impossi- 
bility to live neglected, — to walk on the quiet paths where alone it is 
well with us. Singularity must henceforth succeed singularity. O 
foulest Circean draught, thou poison of Popular Applause! madness is 
in thee and death; thy end is Bedlam and the grave." Mr. Carlyle 
won his first successes as a kind of preacher in print. His fervor, his 
oddity of manner, his pugnacious paradox, drew the crowd; the truth, 
or, at any rate, the faith that underlay them all, brought also the 
fitter audience, though fewer. But the curse was upon him; he 
must attract, he must astonish. Thenceforth he has done nothing 
but revamp his telling things; but the oddity has become always 
odder, the paradoxes more paradoxical. No very large share of 
truth falls to the apprehension of any one man; let him keep it sacred, 
and beware of repeating it till it turn to falsehood on his lips by 
becoming ritual. Truth always has a bewitching savor of newness 
in it, and novelty at the first taste recalls that original sweetness to 
the tongue; but alas for him who would make the one a substitute 
for the other! We seem to miss of late in Mr. Carlyle the old sin- 
cerity. He has become the purely literary man, less concerned about 
what he says than about how he shall say it to best advantage. The 
Muse should be the companion, not the guide, says he whom Mr. 
Carlyle has pronounced "the wisest of this generation." What 
would be a virtue in the poet is a vice of the most fatal kind in the 
teacher, and, alas that we should say it! the very Draco of shams, 
whose code contained no penalty milder than capital for the most 
harmless of them, has become at last something very like a sham 
himself. Mr. Carlyle continues to be a voice crying in the wilderness, 
but no longer a voice with any earnest conviction behind it. Hear- 
ing him rebuke us for being humbugs and impostors, we are inclined 
to answer, with the ambassador of Philip II., when his master 
reproached him with forgetting substance in ceremony, "Your 
Majesty forgets that you are only a ceremony yourself." And Mr. 
Carlyle's teaching, moreover, — if teaching we may call it, — belongs 
to what the great German, whose disciple he is, condemned as 
the "literature of despair." An apostle to the gentiles might hope 
for some fruit of his preaching; but of what avail an apostle who 
shouts his message down the mouth of the pit to poor lost souls, 
whom he can positively assure only that it is impossible to get out ? 



584 AMERICAN PROSE 



Mr. Carlyle lights up the lanterns of his Pharos after the ship is 
already rolling between the tongue of the sea and the grinders of the 
reef. It is very brilliant, and its revolving flashes touch the crests of 
the breakers with an awful picturesque ness; but in so desperate a 
state of things, even Dr. Syntax might be pardoned for being 
forgetful of the picturesque. The Toryism of Scott sprang from 
love of the past; that of Carlyle is far more dangerously in- 
fectious, for it is logically deduced from a deep disdain of human 
nature. 

Browning has drawn a beautiful picture of an old king sitting at 
the gate of his palace to judge his people in the calm sunshine of 
that past which never existed outside a poet's brain. It is the sweet- 
est of waking dreams, this of absolute power and perfect wisdom in 
one supreme ruler; but it is as pure a creation of human want and 
weakness, as clear a witness of mortal limitation and incompleteness, 
as the shoes of swiftness, the cloak of darkness, the purse of Fortuna- 
tus, and the elixir vitae. It is the natural refuge of imaginative 
temperaments impatient of our blunders and shortcomings, and, given 
a complete man, all would submit to the divine right of his despotism. 
But alas! to every the most fortunate human birth hobbles up that 
malign fairy who has been forgotten, with her fatal gift of imper- 
fection! So far as our experience has gone, it has been the very 
opposite of Mr. Carlyle's. Instead of finding men disloyal to their 
natural leader, nothing has ever seemed to us so touching as the 
gladness with which they follow him, when they are sure they haye 
found him at last. But a natural leader of the ideal type is not to 
be looked for nisi dignus vindice nodus. The Divine Forethought 
had been cruel in furnishing one for every petty occasion, and thus 
thwarting in all inferior men that priceless gift of reason, to develop 
which, and to make it one with free-will, is the highest use of our 
experience on earth. Mr. Carlyle was hard bestead and very far 
gone in his idolatry of mere pluck, when he was driven to choose 
Friedrich as a hero. A poet — and Mr. Carlyle is nothing else — is 
unwise who yokes Pegasus to a prosaic theme which no force of wing 
can lift from the dull earth. Charlemagne would have been a wiser 
choice, far enough in the past for ideal treatment, more manifestly 
the Siegfried of Anarchy, and in his rude way the refounder of that 
empire which is the ideal of despotism in the Western world. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 585 

Friedrich was doubtless a remarkable man, but surely very far 
below any lofty standard of heroic greatness. He was the last of 
the European kings who could look upon his kingdom as his private 
patrimony; and it was this estate of his, this piece of property, which 
he so obstinately and successfully defended. He had no idea of 
country as it was understood by an ancient Greek or Roman, as it is 
understood by a modern Englishman or American; and there is some- 
thing almost pitiful in seeing a man of genius like Mr. Carlyle fighting 
painfully over again those battles of the last century which settled 
nothing but the continuance of the Prussian monarchy, while he saw 
only the "burning of a dirty chimney" in the war which a great people 
was waging under his very eyes for the idea of nationality and orderly 
magistrature, and which fixed, let us hope, forever, a boundary- 
line on the map of history and man's advancement toward self- 
conscious and responsible freedom. The true historical genius, to 
our thinking, is that which can see the nobler meaning of events that 
are near him, as the true poet is he who detects the divine in the 
casual; and we somewhat suspect the depth of his insight into the 
past, who cannot recognize the godlike of to-day under that disguise 
in which it always visits us. Shall we hint to Mr. Carlyle that a 
man may look on an heroic age, as well as an heroic master, with 
the eyes of a valet, as misappreciative certainly, though not so 
ignoble ? 

What Goethe says of a great poet, that he must be a citizen of 
his age as well as of his country, may be said inversely of a great 
king. He should be a citizen of his country as well as of his age. 
Friedrich was certainly the latter in its fullest sense; whether he was, 
or could have been, the former, in any sense, may be doubted. The 
man who spoke and wrote French in preference to his mother-tongue, 
who, dying when Goethe was already drawing toward his fortieth 
year, Schiller toward his thirtieth, and Lessing had been already five 
years in his grave, could yet see nothing but barbarism in German 
literature, had little of the old Teutonic fibre in his nature.' The man 
who pronounced the Nibelungen Lied not worth a pinch of priming, 
had little conception of the power of heroic traditions in making heroic 
men, and especially in strengthening that instinct made up of so many 
indistinguishable associations which we call love of country. Charle- 
magne, when he caused the old songs of his people to be gathered and 



586 AMERICAN PROSE 



written down, showed a truer sense of the sources of national feeling 
and a deeper political insight. This want of sympathy points to the 
somewhat narrow limits of Friedrich's nature. In spite of Mr. 
Carlyle's adroit statement of the case, and the whole book has an 
air of being the plea of a masterly advocate in mitigation of sentence, 
we feel that his hero was essentially hard, narrow, and selfish. His 
popularity will go for little with any one who has studied the trifling 
and often fabulous elements that make up that singular compound. 
A bluntness of speech, a shabby uniform, a frugal camp equipage, a 
timely familiarity, may make a man the favorite of an army or a 
nation, — above all, if he have the knack of success. Moreover, 
popularity is much more easily won from above downward, and 
is bought at a better bargain by kings and generals than by other men. 
We doubt if Friedrich would have been liked as a private person, or 
even as an unsuccessful king. He apparently attached very few 
people to himself, fewer even than his brutal old Squire Western of 
a father. His sister Wilhelmina is perhaps an exception. We say 
perhaps, for we do not know how much the heroic part he was called 
on to play had to do with the matter, and whether sisterly pride did 
not pass even with herself for sisterly affection. Moreover she was 
far from him; and Mr. Carlyle waves aside, in his generous fashion, 
some rather keen comments of hers on her brother's character when 
she visited Berlin after he had become king. Indeed, he is apt to deal 
rather contemptuously with all adverse criticism of his hero. We 
sympathize with his impulse in this respect, agreeing heartily as we 
do in Chaucer's scorn of those who " gladlie demen to the. baser end" 
in such matters. But we are not quite sure if this be a safe method 
with the historian. He must doubtless be the friend of his hero if he 
would understand him, but he must be more the friend of truth if he 
would understand history. Mr. Carlyle's passion for truth is intense, 
as befits his temper, but it is that of a lover for his mistress. He would 
have her all to himself, and has a lover's conviction that no one is 
able, or even fit, to appreciate her but himself. He does well to 
despise the tittle-tattle of vulgar minds, but surely should not ignore 
all testimony on the other side. For ourselves, we think it not unim- 
portant that Goethe's friend Knebel, a man not incapable of admira- 
tion, and who had served a dozen years or so as an officer of Friedrich's 
guard, should have bluntly called him "the tyrant." 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 587 

Mr. Carlyle's history traces the family of his hero down from its 
beginnings in the picturesque chiaro-scuro of the Middle Ages. It 
was an able and above all a canny house, a Scotch version of the word 
able, which implies thrift and an eye to the main chance, the said 
main chance or chief end of man being altogether of this world. 
Friedrich, inheriting this family faculty in full measure, was driven, 
partly by ambition, partly by necessity, to apply it to war. He did 
so, with the success to be expected where a man of many expedients 
has the good luck to be opposed by men with few. He adds another 
to the many proofs that it is possible to be a great general without a 
spark of that divine fire which we call genius, and that good fortune 
in war results from the same prompt talent and unbending temper 
which lead to the same result in the peaceful professions. Friedrich 
had certainly more of the temperament of genius than Marlborough 
or Wellington; but not to go beyond modern instances, he does not 
impress us with the massive breadth of Napoleon, nor attract us with 
the climbing ardor of Turenne. To compare him with Alexander 
or Caesar were absurd. The kingship that was in him, and which 
won Mr. Carlyle to be his biographer, is that of will merely, of rapid 
and relentless command. For organization he had a masterly talent; 
but he could not apply it to the arts of peace, both because he wanted 
experience and because the rash decision of the battle-field will not 
serve in matters which are governed by natural laws of growth. He 
seems, indeed, to have had a coarse, soldier's contempt for all civil 
distinction, altogether unworthy of a wise king, or even of a prudent 
one. He confers the title of Hofrath on the husband of a woman with 
whom his General Walrave is living in what Mr. Carlyle justly calls 
"brutish polygamy," and this at Walrave's request, on the ground 
that "a general's drab ought to have a handle to her name." Mr. 
Carlyle murmurs in a mild parenthesis that "we rather regret this"! 
(Vol. III. p. 559.) This is his usual way of treating unpleasant 
matters, sidling by with a deprecating shrug of the shoulders. 
Not that he ever wilfully suppresses anything. On the contrary, 
there is no greater proof of his genius than the way in which, while 
he seems to paint a character with- all its disagreeable traits, 
he contrives to win our sympathy for it, nay, almost our liking. 
This is conspicuously true of his portrait of Friedrich's father; and 
that he does not succeed in making Friedrich himself attractive is a 



588 AMERICAN PROSE 



strong argument with us that the fault is in the subject and not the 
artist. 

The book, we believe, has been comparatively unsuccessful as a 
literary venture. Nor do we wonder at it. It is disproportionately 
long, and too much made up of those descriptions of battles to read 
which seems even more difficult than to have won the victory itself, 
more disheartening than to have suffered the defeat. To an Ameri- 
can, also, the warfare seemed Liliputian in the presence of a conflict 
so much larger in its proportions and significant in its results. The 
interest, moreover, flags decidedly toward the close, where the reader 
cannot help feeling that the author loses breath somewhat painfully 
under the effort of so prolonged a course. Mr. Carlyle has evidently 
devoted to his task a labor that may be justly called prodigious. Not 
only has he sifted all the German histories and memoirs, but has 
visited every battle-field, and describes them with an eye for country 
that is without rival among historians. The book is evidently an 
abridgment of even more abundant collections, and yet as it stands 
the matter overburdens the work. It is a bundle of lively episodes 
rather than a continuous narrative. In this respect it contrasts oddly 
with the concinnity of his own earlier Life of Schiller. But the epi- 
sodes are lively, the humor and pathos spring from a profound 
nature, the sketches of character are masterly, the seizure of every 
picturesque incident infallible, and the literary judgments those of 
a thorough scholar and critic. There is, of course, the usual amusing 
objurgation of Dryasdust and his rubbish-heaps, the usual assump- 
tion of omniscience, and the usual certainty of the lively French lady 
of being always in the right; yet we cannot help thinking that a little 
of Dryasdust's plodding exactness would have saved Fouquet 
eleven years of the imprisonment to which Mr. Carlyle condemns 
him, would have referred us to St. Simon rather than to Voltaire for 
the character of the brothers Belle-Ile, and would have kept clear of 
a certain ludicrous etymology of the name Antwerp, not to mention 
some other trifling slips of the like nature. In conclusion, after 
saying, as honest critics must, that "The History of Friedrich II. 
called Frederick the Great" is a book to be read in with more satis- 
faction than to be read through, after declaring that it is open to all 
manner of criticism, especially in point of moral purpose and tend- 
ency, we must admit with thankfulness, that it has the one prime merit 



JOHN C. CALHOUN 589 



of being the work of a man who has every quality of a great poet 
except that supreme one of rhythm, which shapes both matter and 
manner to harmonious proportion, and that where it is good, it is 
good as only genius knows how to be. 



JOHN C. CALHOUN 

SPEECH ON THE SLAVERY QUESTION 

I have, Senators, believed from the first that the agitation of 
the subject of slavery would, if not prevented by some timely and 
effective measure, end in disunion. Entertaining this opinion, I 
have, on all proper occasions, endeavored to call the attention of both 
the two great parties which divide the country to adopt some measure 
to prevent so great a disaster, but without success. The agitation 
has been permitted to proceed, with almost no attempt to resist it, 
until it has reached a point when it can no longer be disguised or 
denied that the Union is in danger. You have thus had forced upon 
you the greatest and the gravest question that can ever come under 
your consideration — How can the Union be preserved ? 

To give a satisfactory answer to this mighty question, it is in- 
dispensable to have an accurate and thorough knowledge of the 
nature and the character of the cause by which the Union is endan- 
gered. Without such knowledge it is impossible to pronounce, with 
any certainty, by what measure it can be saved; just as it would be 
impossible for a physician to pronounce, in the case of some dangerous 
disease, with any certainty, by what remedy the patient could be 
saved, without similar knowledge of the nature and character of the 
cause which produced it. The first question, then, presented for 
consideration, in the investigation I propose to make, in order to 
obtain such knowledge, is — What is it that has endangered the Union ? 

To this question there can be but one answer, — that the immedi- 
ate cause is the almost universal discontent which pervades all the 
States composing the Southern section of the Union. This widely- 
extended discontent is not of recent origin. It commenced with the 
agitation of the slavery question, and has been increasing ever since. 
The next question, going one step further back, is — What has caused 
this widely diffused and almost universal discontent ? 



5QO AMERICAN PROSE 



It is a great mistake to suppose, as is by some, that it originated 
with demagogues, who excited the discontent with the intention of 
aiding their personal advancement, or with the disappointed ambition 
of certain politicians, who resorted to it as the means of retrieving 
their fortunes. On the contrary, all the great political influences of 
the section were arrayed against excitement, and exerted to the 
utmost to keep the people quiet. The great mass of the people of 
the South were divided, as in the other section, into Whigs and 
Democrats. The leaders and the presses of both parties in the South 
were very solicitous to prevent excitement and to preserve quiet; 
because it was seen that the effects of the former would necessarily 
tend to weaken, if not destroy, the political ties which united them 
with their respective parties in the other section. Those who know 
the strength of party ties will readily appreciate the immense force 
which this cause exerted against agitation, and in favor of preserving 
quiet. But, great as it was, it was not sufficient to prevent the wide- 
spread discontent which now pervades the section. No; some cause, 
far, deeper and more powerful than the one supposed, must exist, to 
account for discontent so wide and deep. The question then recurs 
— What is the cause of this discontent ? It will be found in the belief 
of the people of the Southern States, as prevalent as the discontent 
itself, that they cannot remain, as things now are, consistently with 
honor and safety, in the Union. The next question to be considered, 
is — What has caused this belief ? 

One of the causes is, undoubtedly, to be traced to the long- 
continued agitation of the slave question on the part of the North, 
and the many aggressions which they have made on the rights of 
the South during the time. I will not enumerate them at present, as 
it will be done hereafter in its proper place. 

There is another lying back of it — with which this is intimately 
connected — that may be regarded as the great and primary cause. 
This is to be found in the fact that the equilibrium between the two 
sections, in the Government as it stood when the constitution was 
ratified and the Government put in action, has been destroyed. At 
that time there was nearly a perfect equilibrium between the two, 
which afforded ample means to each to protect itself against the 
aggression of the other; but, as it now stands, one section has the 
exclusive power, of controlling the Government, which leaves the 



JOHN C. CALHOUN 591 



other without any adequate means of protecting itself against its 
encroachment and oppression. To place this subject distinctly before 
you, I have. Senators, prepared a brief statistical statement, showing 
the relative weight of the two sections in the Government under the 
first census of 1790 and the last census of 1840. 

According to the former, the population of the United States, 
including Vermont, Kentucky, and Tennessee, which then were in 
their incipient condition of becoming States, but were not actually 
admitted, amounted to 3,929,827. Of this number the Northern 
States had 1,997,899, and the Southern 1,952,072, making a differ- 
ence of only 45,827 in favor of the former States. The number of 
States, including Vermont, Kentucky, and Tennessee, were sixteen; 
of which eight, including Vermont, belonged to the Northern section, 
and eight, including Kentucky and Tennessee, to the Southern, — 
making an equal division of the States between the two sections 
under the first census. There was a small preponderance in the House 
of Representatives, and in the Electoral College, in favor of the 
Northern, owing to the fact that, according to the provisions of the 
constitution, in estimating federal numbers five slaves count but 
three; but it was too small to affect sensibly the perfect equilibrium 
which, with that exception, existed at the time. Such was the 
equality of the two sections when the States composing them agreed 
to enter into a Federal Union. Since then the equilibrium between 
them has been greatly disturbed. 

According to the last census the aggregate population of the 
United States amounted to 17,063,357, of which the Northern sec- 
tion contained 9,728,920, and the Southern 7,334,437, making a 
difference, in round numbers, of 2,400,000. The number of States 
had increased from sixteen to twenty-six, making an addition of ten 
States. In the mean time the position of Delaware had become 
doubtful as to which section she properly belonged. Considering 
her as neutral, the Northern States will have thirteen and the South- 
ern States twelve, making a difference in the Senate of two Senators 
in favor of the former. According to the apportionment under the 
census of 1840, there were two hundred and twenty- three members 
of the House of Representatives, of which the Northern States had 
one hundred and thirty-five, and the Southern States (considering 
Delaware as neutral) eighty-seven, making a difference in favor of 



592 AMERICAN PROSE 



the former in the House of Representatives of forty-eight. The dif- 
ference in the Senate of two members, added to this, gives to the 
North in the electoral college, a majority of fifty. Since the census 
of 1840, four States have been added to the Union — Iowa, Wisconsin, 
Florida, and Texas. They leave the difference in the Senate as it 
stood when the census was taken; but add two to the side of the 
North in the House, making the present majority in the House in 
its favor fifty, and in the electoral college fifty-two. 

The result of the whole is to give the Northern section a 
predominance in every department of the Government, and 
thereby concentrate in it the two elements which constitute the 
Federal Government, — majority of States, and a majority of their 
population, estimated in federal numbers. Whatever section 
concentrates the two in itself possesses the control of the entire 
Government. 

But we are just at the close of the sixth decade, and the com- 
mencement of the seventh. The census is to be taken this year, 
which must add greatly to the decided preponderance of the North 
in the House of Representatives and in the electoral college. The 
prospect is, also, that a great increase will be added to its present 
preponderance in the Senate, during the period of the decade, by 
the addition of new States. Two territories, Oregon and Minnesota, 
are already in progress, and strenuous efforts are making to bring 
in three additional States from the territory recently conquered from 
Mexico; which, if successful, will add three other States in a short 
time to the Northern section, making five States; and increasing the 
present number of its States from fifteen to twenty, and of its 
Senators from thirty to forty. On the contrary, there is not a single 
territory in progress in the Southern section, and no certainty that 
any additional State will be added to it during the decade. The 
prospect then is, that the two sections in the Senate, should the 
efforts now made to exclude the South from the newly acquired 
territories succeed, will stand, before the end of the decade, twenty 
Northern States to fourteen Southern (considering Delaware as neu- 
tral), and forty Northern Senators to twenty-eight Southern. This 
great increase of Senators, added to the great increase of members 
of the House of Representatives and the electoral college on the part 
of the North, which must take place under the next decade, will 



JOHN C. CALHOUN 593 



effectually and irretrievably destroy the equilibrium which existed 
when the Government commenced. 

Had this destruction been the operation of time, without the 
interference of Government, the South would have had no reason 
to complain; but such was not the fact. It was caused by the legis- 
lation of this Government, which was appointed, as the common 
agent of all, and charged with the protection of the interests and 
security of all. The legislation by which it has been effected, may 
be classed under three heads. The first, is that series of acts by 
which the South has been excluded from the common territory be- 
longing to all the States as members of the Federal Union — which 
have had the effect of extending vastly the portion allotted to the 
Northern section, and restricting within narrow limits the portion 
left the South. The next consists in adopting a system of revenue 
and disbursements, by which an undue proportion of the burden of 
taxation has been imposed upon the South, and an undue proportion 
of its proceeds appropriated to the North; and the last is a system 
of political measures, by which the original character of the Govern- 
ment has been radically changed. I propose to bestow upon each 
of these, in the order they stand, a few remarks, with the view of 
showing that it is owing to the action of this Government, that the 
equilibrium between the two sections has been destroyed, and the 
whole powers of the system centered in a sectional majority. 

The first of the series of acts by which the South was deprived 
of its due share of the territories, originated with the confederacy 
which preceded the existence of this Government. It is to be found 
in the provision of the ordinance of 1787. Its effect was to exclude 
the South entirely from that vast and fertile region which lies between 
the Ohio and the Mississippi rivers, now embracing five States and 
one territory. The next of the series is the Missouri compromise, 
which excluded the South from that large portion of Louisiana 
which lies north of 36 30', excepting what is included in the State 
of Missouri. The last of the series excluded the South from the whole 
of the Oregon Territory. All these, in the slang of the day, were 
what are called slave territories, and not free soil; that is, territories 
belonging to slaveholding powers and open to the emigration of 
masters with their slaves. By these several acts, the South 
was excluded from 1,238,025 square miles — an extent of country 



594 AMERICAN PROSE 



considerably exceeding the entire valley of the Mississippi. To the 
South was left the portion of the Territory of Louisiana lying south 
of 36 30', and the portion north of it included in the State of Mis- 
souri, with the portion lying south of 36 30', including the States of 
Louisiana and Arkansas, and the territory lying west of the latter, 
and south of 36 30', called the Indian country. These, with the 
Territory of Florida, now the State, make, in the whole, 283,503 
square miles. To this must be added the territory acquired with 
Texas. If the whole should be added to the Southern section, it 
would make an increase of 325,520, which would make the whole 
left to the South, 609,023. But a large part of Texas is still in contest 
between the two sections, which leaves it uncertain what will be the 
real extent of the portion of territory that may be left to the South. 

I have not included the territory recently acquired by the treaty 
with Mexico. The North is making the most strenuous efforts to 
appropriate the whole to herself, by excluding the South from every 
foot of it. If she should succeed, it will add to that from which the 
South has already been excluded, 526,078 square miles, and would 
increase the whole which the North has appropriated to herself, to 
1,764,023, not including the portion that she may succeed in exclud- 
ing us from in Texas. To sum up the whole, the United States, 
since they declared their independence, have acquired 2,373,046 
square miles of territory, from which the North will have excluded 
the South, if she should succeed in monopolizing the newly acquired 
territories, about three-fourths of the whole, leaving to the South 
but about one-fourth. 

Such is the first and great cause that has destroyed the equilib- 
rium between the two sections in the Government. 

The next is the system of revenue and disbursements which 
has been adopted by the Government. It is well known that the 
Government has derived its revenue mainly from duties on imports. 
I shall not undertake to show that such duties must necessarily fall 
mainly on the exporting States, and that the South, as the great 
exporting portion of the Union, has in reality paid vastly more than 
her due proportion of the revenue; because I deem it unnecessary, 
as the subject has on so many occasions been fully discussed. Nor 
shall I, for the same reason, undertake to show that a far greater 
portion of the revenue has been disbursed at the North, than its 



JOHN C. CALHOUN 595 



due share; and that the joint effect of these causes has been, to 
transfer a vast amount from South to North, which, under an equal 
system of revenue and disbursements, would not have been lost to 
her. If to this be added, that many of the duties were imposed, not 
for revenue, but for protection, — that is, intended to put money, 
not in the treasury, but directly into the pocket of the manufacturers, 
— some conception may be formed of the immense amount which, 
in the long course of sixty years, has been transferred from South to 
North. There are no data by which it can be estimated with any 
certainty; but it is safe to say, that it amounts to hundreds of millions 
of dollars. Under the most moderate estimate, it would be sufficient 
to add greatly to the wealth of the North, and thus greatly increase 
her population by attracting emigration from all quarters to that 
section. 

This, combined with the great primary cause, amply explains 
why the North has acquired a preponderance in every department 
of the Government by its disproportionate increase of population 
and States. The former, as has been shown, has increased, in fifty 
years, 2,400,000 over that of the South. This increase of population, 
during so long a period, is satisfactorily accounted for, by the number 
of emigrants, and the increase of their descendants, which have been 
attracted to the Northern section from Europe and the South, in 
consequence of the advantages derived from the causes assigned. 
If they had not existed — if the South had retained all the capital 
which has been extracted from her by the fiscal action of the Govern- 
ment; and, if it had not been excluded by the ordinance of 1787 and 
the Missouri compromise, from the region lying between the Ohio 
and the Mississippi rivers, and between the Mississippi and the 
Rocky Mountains north of 36 30' — it scarcely admits of a doubt, 
that it would have divided the emigration with the North, and by 
retaining her own people, would have at least equalled the North 
in population under the census of 1840, and probably under that 
about to be taken. She would also, if she had retained her equal 
rights in those territories, have maintained an equality in the num- 
ber of States with the North, and have preserved the equilibrium 
between the two sections that existed at the commencement of the 
Government. The loss, then, of the equilibrium is to be attributed 
to the action of this Government. 



596 AMERICAN PROSE 



But while these measures were destroying the equilibrium be- 
tween the two sections, the action of the Government was leading 
to a radical change in its character, by concentrating all the power of 
the system in itself. The occasion will not permit me to trace the 
measures by which this great change has been consummated. If it 
did, it would not be difficult to show that the process commenced 
at an early period of the Government; and that it proceeded, almost 
without interruption, step by step, until it absorbed virtually its 
entire powers; but without going through the whole process to 
establish the fact, it may be done satisfactorily by a very short 
statement. 

That the Government claims, and practically maintains the 
right to decide in the last resort, as to the extent of its powers, will 
scarcely be denied by any one conversant with the political histor)' 
of the country. That it also claims the right to resort to force to 
maintain whatever power it claims, against all opposition, is equally 
certain. Indeed it is apparent, from what we daily hear, that this 
has become the prevailing and fixed opinion of a great majority of 
the community. Now, I ask, what limitation can possibly be placed 
upon the powers of a government claiming and exercising such 
rights ? And, if none can be, how can the separate governments of 
the States maintain and protect the powers reserved to them by the 
constitution — or the people of the several States maintain those 
which are reserved to them, and among others, the sovereign powers 
by which they ordained and established, not only their separate 
State Constitutions and Governments, but also the Constitution 
and Government of the United States ? But, if they have no consti- 
tutional means of maintaining them against the right claimed by 
this Government, it necessarily follows, that they hold them at its 
pleasure and discretion, and that all the powers of the system are in 
reality concentrated in it. It also follows, that the character of the 
Government has been changed in consequence, from a federal republic, 
as it originally came from the hands of its framers, into a great 
national consolidated democracy. It has indeed, at present, all the 
characteristics of the latter, and not one of the former, although it 
still retains its outward form. 

The result of the whole of these causes combined is — that the 
North has acquired a decided ascendency over every department of 



JOHN C. CALHOUN 597 



this Government, and through it a control over all the powers of the 
system. A single section governed by the will of the numerical 
majority, has now, in fact, the control of the Government and the 
entire powers of the system. What was once a constitutional federal 
republic, is now converted, in reality, into one as absolute as that of 
the Autocrat of Russia, and as despotic in its tendency as any abso- 
lute government that ever existed. 

As, then, the North has the absolute control over the Govern- 
ment, it is manifest, that on all questions between it and the South, 
where there is a diversity of interests, the interest of the latter will be 
sacrificed to the former, however oppressive the effects may be; as 
the South possesses no means by which it can resist, through the 
action of the Government. But if there was no question of vital 
importance to the South, in reference to which there was a diversity 
of views between the two sections, this state of things might be 
endured, without the hazard of destruction to the South. But such 
is not the fact. There is a question of vital importance to the South- 
ern section, in reference to which the views and feelings of the two 
sections are as opposite and hostile as they can possibly be. 

I refer to the relation between the two races in the Southern 
section, which constitutes a vital portion of her social organization. 
Every portion of the North entertains views and feelings more or 
less hostile to it. Those most opposed and hostile, regard it as a sin, 
and consider themselves under the most sacred obligation to use 
every effort to destroy it. Indeed, to the extent that they conceive 
that they have power, they regard themselves as implicated in the 
sin, and responsible for not suppressing it by the use of all and every 
means. Those less opposed and hostile, regard it as a crime — an 
offence against humanity, as they call it; and although not so fanat- 
ical, feel themselves bound to use all efforts to effect the same object ; 
while those who are least opposed and hostile, regard it as a blot 
and a stain on the character of what they call the Nation, and feel 
themselves accordingly bound to give it no countenance or support. 
On the contrary, the Southern section regards the relation as one 
which cannot be destroyed without subjecting the two races to the 
greatest calamity, and the section to poverty, desolation, and wretch- 
edness; and accordingly they feel bound, by every consideration of 
interest and safety, to defend it. 



5q8 AMERICAN PROSE 



This hostile feeling on the part of the North towards the social 
organization of the South long lay dormant, but it only required 
some cause to act on those who felt most intensely that they were 
responsible for its continuance, to call it into action. The increasing 
power of this Government, and of the control of the Northern sec- 
tion over all its departments, furnished the cause. It was this which 
made an impression on the minds of many, that there was little or 
no restraint to prevent the Government from doing whatever it 
might choose to do. This was sufficient of itself to put the most 
fanatical portion of the North in action, for the purpose of destroying 
the existing relation between the two races in the South. 

The first organized movement towards it commenced in 1835. 
Then, for the first time, societies were organized, presses established, 
lecturers sent forth to excite the people of the North, and incendiary 
publications scattered over the whole South, through the mail. The 
South was thoroughly aroused. Meetings were held everywhere, 
and resolutions adopted, calling upon the North to apply a remedy 
to arrest the threatened evil, and pledging themselves to adopt 
measures for their own protection, if it was not arrested. At the 
meeting of Congress, petitions poured in from the North, calling 
upon Congress to abolish slavery in the District of Columbia, and 
to prohibit, what they called, the internal slave trade between the 
States — announcing at the same time, that their ultimate object 
was to abolish slavery, not only in the District, but in the States 
and throughout the Union. At this period, the number engaged in 
the agitation was small, and possessed little or no personal influence. 

Neither party in Congress had, at that time, any sympathy 
with them or their cause. The members of each party presented 
their petitions with great reluctance. Nevertheless, small and con- 
temptible as the party then was, both of the great parties of the 
North dreaded them. They felt, that though small, they were organ- 
ized in reference to a subject which had a great and a commanding 
influence over the Northern mind. Each party, on that account, 
feared to oppose their petitions, lest the opposite party should take 
advantage of the one who might do so, by favoring them. The 
effect was, that both united in insisting that the petitions should be 
received, and that Congress should take jurisdiction over the subject. 
To justify their course, they took the extraordinary ground, that 



JOHN C. CALHOUN 599 



Congress was bound to receive petitions on every subject, however 
objectionable they might be, and whether they had, or had not, 
jurisdiction over the subject. These views prevailed in the House 
of Representatives, and partially in the Senate; and thus the party 
succeeded in their first movements, in gaining what they proposed — 
a position in Congress from which agitation could be extended over 
the whole Union. This was the commencement of the agitation, 
which has ever since continued, and which, as is now acknowledged, 
has endangered the Union itself. 

As for myself, I believed at that early period, if the party who 
got up the petitions should succeed in getting Congress to take 
jurisdiction, that agitation would follow, and that it would in the 
end, if not arrested, destroy the Union. I then so expressed myself 
in debate, and called upon both parties to take grounds against 
assuming jurisdiction; but in vain. Had my voice been heeded, and 
had Congress refused to take jurisdiction, by the united votes of all 
parties, the agitation which followed would have been prevented, 
and the fanatical zeal that gives impulse to the agitation, and which 
has brought us to our present perilous condition, would have become 
extinguished, from the want of fuel to feed the flame. That was 
the time for the North to have shown her devotion to the Union; 
but, unfortunately, both of the great parties of that section were so 
intent on obtaining or retaining party ascendency, that all other 
considerations were overlooked or forgotten. 

What has since followed are but natural consequences. With 
the success of their first movement, this small fanatical party began 
to acquire strength; and with that, to become an object of courtship 
to both the great parties. The necessary consequence was, a further 
increase of power, and a gradual tainting of the opinions of both of 
the other parties with their doctrines, until the infection has extended 
over both; and the great mass of the population of the North, who, 
whatever may be their opinion of the original abolition party, which 
still preserves its distinctive organization, hardly ever fail, when it 
comes to acting, to co-operate in carrying out their measures. With 
the increase of their influence, they extended the sphere of their 
action. In a short time after the commencement of their first move- 
ment, they had acquired sufficient influence to induce the legislatures 
of most of the Northern States to pass acts, which in effect abrogated 



6oo AMERICAN PROSE 



the clause of the constitution that provides for the delivery up of 
fugitive slaves. Not long after, petitions followed to abolish slavery 
in forts, magazines, and dockyards, and all other places where Congress 
had exclusive power of legislation. This was followed by petitions 
and resolutions of legislatures of the Northern States, and popular 
meetings, to exclude the Southern States from all territories acquired, 
or to be acquired, and to prevent the admission of any State here- 
after into the Union, which, by its constitution, does not prohibit 
slavery. And Congress is invoked to do all this, expressly with the 
view to the final abolition of slavery in the States. That has been 
avowed to be the ultimate object from the beginning of the agitation 
until the present time; and yet the great body of both parties of the 
North, with the full knowledge of the fact, although disavowing the 
abolitionists, have co-operated with them in almost all their measures. 
Such is a brief history of the agitation, as far as it has yet ad- 
vanced. Now I ask, Senators, what is there to prevent its further 
progress, until it fulfils the ultimate end proposed, unless some deci- 
sive measure should be adopted to prevent it ? Has any one of the 
causes, which has added to its increase from its original small and 
contemptible beginning until it has attained its present magnitude, 
diminished in force? Is the original cause of the movement — that 
slavery is a sin, and ought to be suppressed — weaker now than at 
the commencement? Or is the abolition party less numerous or 
influential, or have they less influence with, or control over the two 
great parties of the North in elections ? Or has the South greater 
means of influencing or controlling the movements of this Govern- 
ment now, than it had when the agitation commenced? To all 
these questions but one answer can be given: No — no — no. The 
very reverse is true. Instead of being weaker, all the elements in 
favor of agitation are stronger now than they were in 1835, when it 
first commenced, while all the elements of influence on the part of 
the South are weaker. Unless something decisive is done, I again 
ask, what is to stop this agitation, before the great and final object 
at which it aims — the abolition of slavery in the States — is consum- 
mated? Is it, then, not certain, that if something is not done to 
arrest it, the South will be forced to choose between abolition and 
secession? Indeed, as events are now moving, it will not require 
the South to secede, in order to dissolve the Union. Agitation will 



JOHN C. CALHOUN 601 



of itself effect it, of which its past history furnishes abundant proof — 
as I shall next proceed to show. 

It is a great mistake to suppose that disunion can be effected 
by a single blow. The cords which bound these States together in 
one common Union, are far too numerous and powerful for that. 
Disunion must be the work of time. It is only through a long process, 
and successively, that the , cords can be snapped, until the whole 
fabric falls asunder. Already the agitation of the slavery question 
has snapped some of the most important, and has greatly weakened 
all the others, as I shall proceed to show. 

The cords that bind the States together are not only many, but 
various in character. Some are spiritual or ecclesiastical; some 
political; others social. Some appertain to the benefit conferred by 
the Union, and others to the feeling of duty and obligation. 

The strongest of those of a spiritual and ecclesiastical nature, 
consisted in the unity of the great religious denominations, all of 
which originally embraced the whole Union. All these denominations, 
with the exception, perhaps, of the Catholics, were organized very 
much upon the principle of our political institutions. Beginning with 
smaller meetings, corresponding with the political divisions of the 
country, their organization terminated in one great central assem- 
blage, corresponding very much with the character of Congress. At 
these meetings the principal clergymen and lay members of the 
respective denominations, from all parts of the Union, met to trans- 
act business relating to their common concerns. It was not confined 
to what appertained to the doctrines and discipline of the respective 
denominations, but extended to plans for disseminating the Bible — 
establishing missions, distributing tracts — and of establishing presses 
for the publication of tracts, newspapers, and periodicals, with a 
view of diffusing religious information — and for the support of their 
respective doctrines and creeds. All this combined contributed 
greatly to strengthen the bonds of the Union. The ties which held 
each denomination together formed a strong cord to hold the whole 
Union together; but, powerful as they were, they have not been 
able to resist the explosive effect of slavery agitation. 

The first of these cords which snapped, under its explosive force, 
was that of the powerful Methodist Episcopal Church. The numer- 
ous and strong ties which held it together, are all broken, and its 



6o2 AMERICAN PROSE 



unity gone. They now form separate churches; and, instead of that 
feeling of attachment and devotion to the interests of the whole 
church which was formerly felt, they are now arrayed into two hos- 
tile bodies, engaged in litigation about what was formerly their 
common property. 

The next cord that snapped was that of the Baptists — one of 
the largest and most respectable of the denominations. That of the 
Presbyterian is not entirely snapped, but some of its strands have 
given way. That of the Episcopal Church is the only one of the four 
great Protestant denominations which remains unbroken and entire. 

The strongest cord, of a political character, consists of the many 
and powerful ties that have held together the two great parties 
which have, with some modifications, existed from the beginning of 
the Government. They both extended to every portion of the Union, 
and strongly contributed to hold all its parts together. But this 
powerful cord has fared no better than the spiritual. It resisted, for 
a long time, the explosive tendency of the agitation, but has finally 
snapped under its force — if not entirely, in a great measure. Nor is 
there one of the remaining cords which has not been greatly weak- 
ened. To this extent the Union has already been destroyed by agita- 
tion, in the only way it can be, by sundering and weakening the cords 
which bind it together. 

If the agitation goes on, the same force, acting with increased 
intensity, as has been shown, will finally snap every cord, when 
nothing will be left to hold the States together except force. But, 
surely, that can, with no propriety of language, be called a Union, 
when the only means by which the weaker is held connected with 
the stronger portion is force. It may, indeed, keep them connected; 
but the connection will partake much more of the character of sub- 
jugation, on the part of the weaker to the stronger, than the union of 
free, independent, and sovereign States, in one confederation, as 
they stood in the early stages of the Government, and which only 
is worthy of the sacred name of Union. 

Having now, Senators, explained what it is that endangers the 
Union, and traced it to its cause, and explained its nature and char- 
acter, the question again recurs — How can the Union be saved ? To 
this I answer, there is but one way by which it can he— and that is — 
by adopting such measures as will satisfy the States belonging to 



JOHN C. CALHOUN 603 



the Southern section, that they can remain in the Union consistently 
with their honor and their safety. There is, again, only one way by 
which this can be effected, and that is — by removing the causes by 
which this belief has been produced. Do this, and discontent will 
cease — harmony and kind feelings between the sections be restored — 
and every apprehension of danger to the Union removed. The 
question, then, is — How can this be done ? But, before I undertake 
to answer this question, I propose to show by what the Union cannot 
be saved. 

It cannot, then, be saved by eulogies on the Union, however 
splendid or numerous. The cry of "Union, Union — the glorious 
Union!" can no more prevent disunion than the cry of "Health, 
health — glorious health!" on the part of the physician, can save a 
patient lying dangerously ill. So long as the Union, instead of being 
regarded as a protector, is regarded in the opposite character, by not 
much less than a majority of the States, it will be in vain to attempt 
to conciliate them by pronouncing eulogies on it. 

Besides this cry of Union comes commonly from those whom we 
cannot believe to be sincere. It usually comes from our assailants. 
But we cannot believe them to be sincere; for, if they loved the 
Union, they would necessarily be devoted to the constitution. It 
made the Union, — and to destroy the constitution would be to destroy 
the Union. But the only reliable and certain evidence of devotion 
to the constitution is, to abstain, on the one hand, from violating it, 
and to repel, on the other, all attempts to violate it. It is only by 
faithfully performing these high duties that the constitution can be 
preserved, and with it the Union. 

But how stands the profession of devotion to the Union by our 
assailants, when brought to this test? Have they abstained from 
violating the constitution ? Let the many acts passed by the North- 
ern States to set aside and annul the clause of the constitution 
providing for the delivery up of fugitive slaves answer. I cite this, 
not that it is the only instance (for there are many others), but 
because the violation in this particular is too notorious and palpable 
to be denied. Again: have they stood forth faithfully to repel 
violations of the constitution? Let their course in reference to the 
agitation of the slavery question, which was commenced and has 
been carried on for fifteen years, avowedly for the purpose of abolishing 



604 AMERICAN PROSE 



slavery in the States — an object all acknowledged to be uncon- 
stitutional — answer. Let them show a single instance, during this 
long period, in which they have denounced the agitators or their 
attempts to effect what is admitted to be unconstitutional, or a single 
measure which they have brought forward for that purpose. How 
can we, with all these facts before us, believe that they are sincere 
in their profession of devotion to the Union, or avoid believing their 
profession is but intended to increase the vigor of their assaults and 
to weaken the force of our resistance ? 

Nor can we regard the profession of devotion to the Union, on 
the part of those who are not our assailants, as sincere, when they 
pronounce eulogies upon the Union, evidently with the intent of 
charging us with disunion, without uttering one word of denunciation 
against our assailants. If friends of the Union, their course should 
be to unite with us in repelling these assaults, and denouncing the 
authors as enemies of the Union. Why they avoid this, and pursue 
the course they do, it is for them to explain. 

Nor can the Union be saved by invoking the name of the illus- 
trious Southerner whose mortal remains repose on the western bank 
of the Potomac. He was one of us — a slaveholder and a planter. 
We have studied his history, and find nothing in it to justify sub- 
mission to wrong. On the contrary, his great fame rests on the 
solid foundation, that, while he was careful to avoid doing wrong to 
others, he was prompt and decided in repelling wrong. I trust that, 
in this respect, we profited by his example. 

Nor can we find any thing in his history to deter us from seceding 
from the Union, should it fail to fulfil the objects for which it was 
instituted, by being permanently and hopelessly converted into the 
means of oppressing instead of protecting us. On the contrary, we 
find much in his example to encourage us, should we be forced to 
the extremity of deciding between submission and disunion. 

There existed then, as well as now, a union — that between the 
parent country and her then colonies. It was a union that had much 
to endear it to the people of the colonies. Under its protecting and 
superintending care, the colonies were planted and grew up and 
prospered, through a long course of years, until they became populous 
and wealthy. Its benefits were not limited to them. Their extensive 
agricultural and other productions, gave birth to a flourishing com- 



John c. calhoun 605 



merce, which richly rewarded the parent country for the trouble and 
expense of establishing and protecting them. Washington was born 
and grew up to manhood under that union. He acquired his early 
distinction in its service, and there is every reason to believe that he 
was devotedly attached to it. But his devotion was a rational one. 
He was attached to it, not as an end, but as a means to an end. 
When it failed to fulfil its end, and, instead of affording protection, 
was converted into the means of oppressing the colonies, he did not 
hesitate to draw his sword, and head the great movement by which 
that union was for ever severed, and the independence of these 
States established. This was the great and crowning glory of his 
life, which has spread his fame over the whole globe, and will transmit 
it to the latest posterity. 

Nor can the plan proposed by the distinguished Senator from 
Kentucky, nor that of the administration save the Union. I shall 
pass by, without remark, the plan proposed by the Senator, and 
proceed directly to the consideration of that of the administration. I 
however assure the distinguished and able Senator, that, in taking 
this course, no disrespect whatever is intended to him or his plan. 
I have adopted it, because so many Senators of distinguished abilities, 
who were present when he delivered his speech, and explained his 
plan, and who were fully capable to do justice to the side they sup- 
port, have replied to him. 

The plan of the administration cannot save the Union, because 
it can have no effect whatever, towards satisfying the States com- 
posing the Southern section of the Union, that they can, consistently 
with safety and honor, remain in the Union. It is, in fact, but a 
modification of the Wilmot Proviso. It proposes to effect the same 
object, — to exclude the South from all territory acquired by the 
Mexican treaty. It is well known that the South is united against 
the Wilmot Proviso, and has committed itself by solemn resolutions, 
to resist, should it be adopted. Its opposition is not to the name, 
but that which it proposes to effect. That, the Southern States hold 
to be unconstitutional, unjust, inconsistent with their equality as 
members of the common Union, and calculated to destroy irretriev- 
ably the equilibrium between the two sections. These objections 
equally apply to what, for brevity, I will call the Executive Proviso. 
There is no difference between it and the Wilmot, except in the mode 



6o6 AMERICAN PROSE 



of effecting the object; and in that respect, I must say, that the 
latter is much the least objectionable. It goes to its object openly, 
boldly, and distinctly. It claims for Congress unlimited power 
over the territories and proposes to assert it over the territories, 
acquired from Mexico, by a positive prohibition of slavery. Not 
so the Executive Proviso. It takes an indirect course, and in 
order to elude the Wilmot Proviso, and thereby avoid encounter- 
ing the united and determined resistance of the South, it denies, 
by implication, the authority of Congress to legislate for the 
territories, and claims the right as belonging exclusively to the in- 
habitants of the territories. But to effect the object of excluding 
the South, it takes care, in the mean time, to let in emigrants freely 
from the Northern States and all other quarters, except from the 
South, which it takes special care to exclude by holding up to them 
the danger of having their slaves liberated under the Mexican laws. 
The necessary consequence is to exclude the South from the territory, 
just as effectually as would the Wilmot Proviso. The only difference 
in this respect is, that what one proposes to effect directly and openly, 
the other proposes to effect indirectly and covertly. 

But the Executive Proviso is more objectionable than the Wilmot, 
in another and more important particular. The latter, to effect its 
object, inflicts a dangerous wound upon the constitution, by depriving 
the Southern States, as joint partners and owners of the territories, of 
their rights in them; but it inflicts no greater wound than is abso- 
lutely necessary to effect its object. The former, on the contrary, 
while it inflicts the same wound, inflicts others equally great, and, if 
possible, greater, as I shall next proceed to explain. 

In claiming the right for the inhabitants, instead of Congress, to 
legislate for the territories, the Executive Proviso assumes that the 
sovereignty over the territories is vested in the former: or to express 
it in the language used in a resolution offered by one of the Senators 
from Texas (General Houston, now absent), they have "the same 
inherent right of self-government as the people in the States." The 
assumption is utterly unfounded, unconstitutional, without example, 
and contrary to the entire practice of the Government, from its 
commencement to the present time 

Having now shown what cannot save the Union, I return to the 
question with which I commenced, How can the Union be saved? 



JOHN C. CALHOUN 607 



There is but one way by which it can with, any certainty; and that 
is, by a full and final settlement, on the principle of justice, of all 
the questions at issue between the two sections. The South asks 
for justice, simple justice, and less she ought not to take. She has 
no compromise to offer, but the constitution; and no concession or 
surrender to make. She has already surrendered so much that she 
has little left to surrender. Such a settlement would go to the root 
of the evil, and remove all cause of discontent, by satisfying the South, 
that she could remain honorably and safely in the Union, and thereby 
restore the harmony and fraternal feelings between the sections, 
which existed anterior to the Missouri agitation. Nothing else can, 
with any certainty, finally and for ever settle the questions at issue, 
terminate agitation, and save the Union. 

But can this be done ? Yes, easily; not by the weaker party, for 
it can of itself do nothing — not even protect itself — but by the 
stronger. The North has only to will it to accomplish it — to do 
justice by conceding to the South an equal right in the acquired 
territory, and to do her duty by causing the stipulations relative to 
fugitive slaves to be faithfully fulfilled — to cease the agitation of the 
slave question, and to provide for the insertion of a provision in the 
constitution, by an amendment, which will restore to the South, in 
substance, the power she possessed of protecting herself, before the 
equilibrium between the sections was destroyed by the action of this 
Government. There will be no difficulty in devising such a provision 
— one that will protect the South, and which, at the same time, will 
improve and strengthen the Government, instead of impairing and 
weakening it. 

But will the North agree to this? It is for her to answer the 
question. But, I will say, she cannot refuse, if she has half the love 
of the Union which she professes to have, or without justly exposing 
herself to the charge that her love of power and aggrandizement is 
far greater than her love of the Union. At all events, the responsibil- 
ity of saving the Union rests on the North, and not on the South. The 
South cannot save it by any act of hers, and the North may save it 
without any sacrifice whatever, unless to do justice, and to perform her 
duties under the constitution, should be regarded by her as a sacrifice. 

It is time, Senators, that there should be an open and manly 
avowal on all sides, as to what is intended to be done. If the question 



AMERICAN PROSE 



is not now settled, it is uncertain whether it ever can hereafter 
be; and we, as the representatives of the States of this Union, re- 
garded as governments, should come to a distinct understanding as 
to our respective views, in order to ascertain whether the great 
questions at issue can be settled or not. If you, who represent the 
stronger portion, cannot agree to settle them on the broad principle 
of justice and duty, say so; and let the States we both represent 
agree to separate and part in peace. If you are unwilling we should 
part in peace, tell us so; and we shall know what to do, wh( j you 
reduce the question to submission or resistance. If you smain 
silent, you will compel us to infer by your acts what you intend. In 
that case, California will become the test question. If you admit 
her, under all the difficulties that oppose her admission, you compel 
us to infer that you intend to exclude us from the whole of the ac- 
quired territories, with the intention of destroying, irretrievably , the 
equilibrium between the two sections. We would be blind not to 
perceive in that case, that your real objects are power and aggran- 
dizement, and infatuated not to act accordingly. 

I have now, Senators, done my duty in expressing my opinions 
fully, freely, and candidly, on this solemn occasion. In doing so, I 
have been governed by the motives which have governed me in all 
the stages of the agitation of the slavery question since its commence- 
ment. I have exerted myself, during the whole period, to arrest it, 
with the intention of saving the Union, if it could be done; and if 
it could not, to save the section where it has pleased Providence to 
cast my lot, and which I sincerely believe has justice and the consti- 
tution on its side. Having faithfully done my duty to the est of 
my ability, both to the Union and my section, throughout this 
agitation, I shall have the consolation, let what will come, that I am 
free from all responsibility. t 



DANIEL WEBSTER 

THE CONSTITUTION AND THE UNION 

Mr. President, — I wish to speak to-day, not as a Massachu- 
setts man, nor as a Northern man, but as an American, and a member 
of the Senate of the United States. It is fortunate that there is a 



DANIEL WEBSTER 609 



Senate of the United States; a body not yet moved from its propriety, 
not lost to a just sense of its own dignity and its own high respon- 
sibilities, and a body to which the country looks, with confidence, 
for wise, moderate, patriotic, and healing counsels. It is not to be 
denied that we live in the midst of strong agitations, and are sur- 
rounded by very considerable dangers to our institutions and govern- 
ment. The imprisoned winds are let loose. The East, the North, 
and the stormy South combine to throw the whole sea into commotion, 
to tc i: s its billows to the skies, and disclose its profoundest depths. I 
do ntt affect to regard myself, Mr. President, as holding, or as fit 
to hold, the helm in this combat with the political elements; but I 
have a duty to perform, and I mean to perform it with fidelity, not 
without a sense of existing dangers, but not without hope. I have a 
part to act, not for my own security or safety, for I am looking out 
for -tio fragment upon which to float away from the wreck, if wreck 
there must be, but for the good of the whole, and the preservation of 
all; ^and there is that which will keep me to my duty during this 
struggle, whether the sun and the stars shall appear, or shall not 
appear for many days. I speak to-day for the preservation of the 
Union. "Hear me for my cause." I speak to-day, out of a solicitous 
and anxious heart, for the restoration to the country of that quiet 
and that harmony which make the blessings of this Union so rich, 
and. ..so dear to us all. These are the topics that I propose to 
myself to discuss; these are the motives, and the sole motives, 
that influence me in the wish to communicate my opinions to the 
Senate and the country; and if I can do any thing, however little, 
for tie promotion of these ends, I shall have accomplished all that I 
expect. 

Mr. President, it may not be amiss to recur very briefly to the 
evei ts which, equally sudden and extraordinary, have brought 
the country into its present political condition. In May, 1846, the 
United States declared war against Mexico. Our armies, then on the 
frontiers, entered the provinces of that republic, met and defeated 
all her troops, penetrated her mountain passes, and occupied her 
capital. The marine force of the United States took possession of 
her forts and her towns, on the Atlantic and on the Pacific. In less 
than two years a treaty was negotiated, by which Mexico ceded to 
the United States a vast territory, extending seven or eight hundred 



6io AMERICAN PROSE 



miles along the shores of the Pacific, and reaching back over the 
mountains, and across the desert, until it joins the frontier of the 
State of Texas. It so happened, in the distracted and feeble state 
of the Mexican government, that before the declaration of war by the 
United States against Mexico had become known in California, the 
people of California, under the lead of American officers, overthrew 
the existing Mexican provincial government, and raised an inde- 
pendent flag. When the news arrived at San Francisco that war had 
been declared by the United States against Mexico, this independent 
flag was pulled down, and the stars and stripes of this Union hoisted 
in its stead. So, Sir, before the war was over, the forces of the United 
States, military and naval, had possession of San Francisco and 
Upper California, and a great rush of emigrants from various parts 
of the world took place into California in 1846 and 1847. But now 
behold another wonder. 

In January of 1848, a party of Mormons made a discovery of an 
extraordinarily rich mine of gold, or rather of a great quantity of 
gold, hardly proper to be called a mine, for it spread near the surface, 
on the lower part of the south, or American branch of the Sacramento, 
They attempted to conceal their discovery for some time; but soon 
another discovery of gold, perhaps of greater importance, was made, 
on another part of the American branch of the Sacramento, and near 
Sutter's Fort, as it is called. The fame of these discoveries spread 
far and wide. They inflamed more and more the spirit of emigration 
towards California, which had already been excited; and adven- 
turers crowded into the country by hundreds, and flocked towards 
the Bay of San Francisco. This, as I have said, took place in the 
winter and spring of 1848. The digging commenced in the spring 
of that year, and from that time to this the work of searching for 
gold has been prosecuted with a success not heretofore known in 
the history of this globe. You recollect, Sir, how incredulous at 
first the American public was at the accounts which reached us of 
these discoveries; but we all know, now, that these accounts received, 
and continue to receive, daily confirmation, and down to the present 
moment I suppose the assurance is as strong, after the experience of 
these several months, of the existence of deposits of gold apparently 
inexhaustible in the regions near San Francisco, in California, as it 
was at any period of the earlier dates of the accounts. 



DANIEL WEBSTER 6n 



It so happened, Sir, that although, after the return of peace, it 
became a very important subject for legislative consideration and 
legislative decision to provide a proper territorial government for 
California, yet differences of opinion between the two houses of 
Congress prevented the establishment of any such territorial govern- 
ment at the last session. Under this state of things, the inhabitants 
of California, already amounting to a considerable number, thought 
it to be their duty, in the summer of last year, to establish a local 
government. Under the proclamation of General Riley, the people 
chose delegates to a convention; and that convention met at Mon- 
terey. It formed a constitution for the State of California, which, 
being referred to the people, was adopted by them in their primary 
assemblages. Desirous of immediate connection with the United 
States, its Senators were appointed and representatives chosen, who 
have come hither, bringing with them the authentic constitution of 
the State of California; and they now present themselves, asking, 
in behalf of their constituents, that it may be admitted into this 
Union as one of the United States. This constitution, Sir, contains 
an express prohibition of slavery, or involuntary servitude, in the 
State of California. It is said, and I suppose truly, that, of the 
members who composed that convention, some sixteen were natives 
of, and had been residents in, the slave-holding States, about twenty- 
two were from the non-slave-holding States, and the remaining ten 
members were either native Californians or old settlers in that 
country. This prohibition of slavery, it is said, was inserted with 
entire unanimity. 

It is this circumstance, Sir, the prohibition of slavery, which 
has contributed to raise, I do not say it has wholly raised, the dispute 
as to the propriety of the admission of California into the Union 
under this constitution. It is not to be denied, Mr. President, nobody 
thinks of denying, that, whatever reasons were assigned at the 
commencement of the late war with Mexico, it was prosecuted for 
the purpose of the acquisition of territory, and under the alleged 
argument that the cession of territory was the only form in which 
proper compensation could be obtained by the United States from 
Mexico, for the various claims and demands which the people of this 
country had against that government. At any rate, it will be found 
that President Polk's message, at the commencement of the session of 



612 AMERICAN PROSE 



December, 1847, avowed that the war was to be prosecuted until 
some acquisition of territory should be made. As the acquisition 
was to be south of the line of the United States, in warm climates 
and countries, it was ' naturally, I suppose, expected by the South, 
that whatever acquisitions were made in that region would be added 
to the slave-holding portion of the United States. Very little of 
accurate information was possessed of the real physical character, 
either of California or New Mexico, and events have not turned out 
as was expected. Both California and New Mexico are likely to 
come in as free States; and therefore some degree of disappointment 
and surprise has resulted. In other words, it is obvious that the 
question which has so long harassed the country, and at times very 
seriously alarmed the minds of wise and good men, has come upon 
us for a fresh discussion; the question of slavery in these United 
States. 

Now, Sir, I propose, perhaps at the expense of some detail and 
consequent detention of the Senate, to review historically this ques- 
tion, which, partly in consequence of its own importance, and 
partly, perhaps mostly, in consequence of the manner in which it 
has been discussed in different portions of the country, has been a 
source of so much alienation and unkind feeling between them. 

We all know, Sir, that slavery has existed in the world from 
time immemorial. There was slavery, in the earliest periods of 
history, among the Oriental nations. There was slavery among the 
Jews; the theocratic government of that people issued no injunction 
against it. There was slavery among the Greeks; and the ingenious 
philosophy of the Greeks found, or sought to find, a justification for 
it exactly upon the grounds which have been assumed for such a 
justification in this country; that is, a natural and original difference 
among the races of mankind, and the inferiority of the black or 
colored race to the white. The Greeks justified their system of 
slavery upon that idea, precisely. They held the African and some 
of the Asiatic tribes to be inferior to the white race; but they did 
not show, I think, by any close process of logic, that if this were true, 
the more intelligent and the stronger had therefore a right to sub- 
jugate the weaker. 

The more manly philosophy and jurisprudence of the Romans 
placed the justification of slavery on entirely different grounds. 



DANIEL WEBSTER 613 



The Roman jurists, from the first and down to the fall of the empire, 
admitted that slavery was against the natural law, by which, as 
they maintained, all men, of whatsoever clime, color, or capacity, 
were equal; but they justified slavery, first upon the ground and 
authority of the law of nations, arguing, and arguing truly, that at 
that day the conventional law of nations admitted that captives in 
war, whose lives, according to the notions of the times, were at the 
absolute disposal of the captors, might, in exchange for exemption 
from death, be made slaves for life, and that such servitude might 
descend to their posterity. The jurists of Rome also maintained, 
that, by the civil law, there might be servitude or slavery, personal 
and hereditary; first, by the voluntary act of an individual, who 
might sell himself into slavery; secondly, by his being reduced into a 
state of slavery by his creditors, in satisfaction of his debts; and, 
thirdly, by being placed in a state of servitude or slavery for crime. 
At the introduction of Christianity, the Roman world was full of 
slaves, and I suppose there is to be found no injunction against that 
relation between man and man in the teachings of the Gospel 
of Jesus Christ or of any of his Apostles. The object of the 
instruction imparted to mankind by the founder of Christianity was 
to touch the heart, purify the soul, and improve the lives of individual 
men. That object went directly to the first fountain of all the 
political and all social relations of the human race, as well as of all 
true religious feeling, the individual heart and mind of man. 

Now, Sir, upon the general nature and influence of slavery there 
exists a wide difference of opinion between the northern portion of 
this country and the southern. It is said on the one side, that, 
although not the subject of any injunction or direct prohibition in 
the New Testament, slavery is a wrong; that it is founded merely in 
the right of the strongest; and that it is an oppression, like unjust 
wars, like all those conflicts by which a powerful nation subjects a 
weaker to its will; and that, in its nature, whatever may be said of it 
in the modifications which have taken place, it is not according to 
the meek spirit of the Gospel. It is not "kindly affectioned" ; it 
does not "seek another's, and not its own"; it does not "let the 
oppressed go free." These are sentiments that are cherished, and of 
late with greatly augmented force, among the people of the Northern 
States. They have taken hold of the religious sentiment of that 



614 AMERICAN PROSE 



part of the country, as they have, more or less, taken hold of the 
religious feelings of a considerable portion of mankind. The South, 
upon the other side, having been accustomed to this relation between 
the two races all their lives, from their birth, having been taught, 
in general, to treat the subjects of this bondage with care and kind- 
ness, and I believe, in general, feeling great kindness for them, have 
not taken the view of the subject which I have mentioned. There 
are thousands of religious men, with consciences as tender as any of 
their brethren at the North, who do not see the unlawfulness of 
slavery; and there are more thousands, perhaps, that, whatsover 
they may think of it in its origin, and as a matter depending upon 
natural right, yet take things as they are, and, finding slavery to be 
an established relation of the society in which they live, can see no 
way in which, let their opinions on the abstract question be what 
they may, it is in the power of the present generation to relieve 
themselves from this relation. And candor obliges me to say, that I 
believe they are just as conscientious, many of them, and the religious 
people, all of them, as they are at the North who hold different 
opinions. 

The honorable Senator from South Carolina the other day alluded 
to the separation of that great religious community, the Methodist 
Episcopal Church. That separation was brought about by differences 
of opinion upon this particular subject of slavery. I felt great con- 
cern, as that dispute went on, about the result. I was in hopes that 
the difference of opinion might be adjusted, because I looked upon 
that religious denomination as one of the great props of religion and 
morals throughout the whole country, from Maine to Georgia, and 
westward to our utmost western boundary. The result was against 
my wishes and against my hopes. I have read all their proceedings 
and all their arguments; but I have never yet been able to come to 
the conclusion that there was any real ground for that separation; 
in other words, that any good could be produced by that separation. 
I must say I think there was some want of candor and charity. Sir, 
when a question of this kind seizes on the religious sentiments of 
mankind, and comes to be discussed in religious assemblies of the 
clergy and laity, there is always to be expected, or always to be 
feared, a great degree of excitement. It is in the nature of man, 
manifested by his whole history, that religious disputes are apt tc 



DANIEL WEBSTER 615 



become warm in proportion to the strength of the convictions which 
men entertain of the magnitude of the questions at issue. In all 
such disputes, there will sometimes be found men with whom every- 
thing is absolute; absolutely wrong, or absolutely right. They see 
the right clearly; they think others ought so to see it, and they are 
disposed to establish a broad line of distinction between what is 
right and what is wrong. They are not seldom willing to establish 
that line upon their own convictions of truth and justice, and are 
ready to mark and guard it by placing along it a series of dogmas, as 
lines of boundary on the earth's surface are marked by posts and 
stones. There are men who, with clear perceptions, as they think, 
of their own duty, do not see how too eager a pursuit of one duty may 
involve them in the violation of others, or how too warm an embrace- 
ment of one truth may lead to a disregard of other truths equally 
important. As I heard it stated strongly, not many days ago, 
these persons are disposed to mount upon some particular duty, 
as upon a war-horse, and to drive furiously on and upon and over all 
other duties that may stand in the way. There are men who, in 
reference to disputes of that sort, are of opinion that human duties 
may be ascertained with the exactness of mathematics. They deal 
with morals as with mathematics; and they think what is right may 
be distinguished from what is wrong with the precision of an algebraic 
equation. They have, therefore, none too much charity towards 
others who differ from them. They are apt, too, to think that nothing 
is good but what is perfect, and that there are no compromises or 
modifications to be made in consideration of difference of opinion or 
in deference to other men's judgment. If their perspicacious vision 
enables them to detect a spot on the face of the sun, they think that 
a good reason why the sun should be struck down from heaven. 
They prefer the chance of running into utter darkness to living in 
heavenly light, if that heavenly light be not absolutely without any 
imperfection. There are impatient men; too impatient always to 
give heed to the admonition of St. Paul, that we are not to "do 
evil that good may come" ; too impatient to wait for the slow progress 
of moral causes in the improvement of mankind. They do not remem- 
ber that the doctrines and the miracles of Jesus Christ have, in 
eighteen hundred years, converted only a small portion of the human 
race; and among the nations that are converted to Christianity, 



616 AMERICAN PROSE 



they forget how many vices and crimes, public and private, still 
prevail, and that many of them, public crimes especially, which are 
so clearly offences against the Christian religion, pass without ex- 
citing particular indignation. Thus wars are waged, and unjust wars. 
I do not deny that there may be just wars. There certainly are; 
but it was the remark of an eminent person, not many years ago, on 
the other side of the Atlantic, that it is one of the greatest reproaches 
to human nature that wars are sometimes just. The defence of 
nations sometimes causes a just war against the injustice of other 
nations. In this state of sentiment upon the general nature of slavery 
lies the cause of a great part of those unhappy divisions, exaspera- 
tions, and reproaches which find vent and support in different parts 
of the Union. 

But we must view things as they are. Slavery does exist in the 
United States. It did exist in the States before the adoption of this 
Constitution, and at that time. Let us, therefore, consider for a 
moment what was the state of sentiment, North and South, in 
regard to slavery, at the time this Constitution was adopted. A 
remarkable change has taken place since; but what did the wise 
and great men of all parts of the country think of slavery then? 
In what estimation did they hold it at the time when this Constitution 
was adopted? It will be found, Sir, if we will carry ourselves by 
historical research back to that day, and ascertain men's opinions 
by authentic records still existing among us, that there was then no 
diversity of opinion between the North and the South upon the 
subject of slavery. It will be found that both parts of the country 
held it equally an evil, a moral and political evil. It will not be 
found that, either at the North or at the South, there was much, 
though there was some, invective against slavery as inhuman and 
cruel. The great ground of objection to it was political; that it weak- 
ened the social fabric; that, taking the place of free labor, society 
became less strong and labor less productive; and therefore we find 
from all the eminent men of the time the clearest expression of their 
opinion that slavery is an evil. They ascribed its existence here, 
not without truth, and not without some acerbity of temper and 
force of language, to the injurious policy of the mother country, 
who, to favor the navigator, had entailed these evils upon the Col- 
onies. I need hardly refer, Sir, particularly to the publications of 



DANIEL WEBSTER 617 



the day. They are matters of history on the record. The eminent 
men, the most eminent men, and nearly all the conspicuous politicians 
of the South, held the same sentiments; that slavery was an evil, a 
blight, a scourge, and a curse. There are no terms of reprobation of 
slavery so vehement in the North at that day as in the South. The 
North was not so much excited against it as the South; and the reason 
is, I suppose, that there was much less of it at the North, and the 
people did not see, or think they saw, the evils so prominently as 
they were seen, or thought to be seen, at the South. 

Then, Sir, when this Constitution was framed, this was the light 
in which the Federal Convention viewed it. That body reflected 
the judgment and sentiments of the great men of the South. A 
member of the other house, whom I have not the honor to know, 
has, in a recent speech, collected extracts from these public docu- 
ments. They prove the truth of what I am saying, and the question 
then was, how to deal with it, and how to deal with it as an evil. 
They came to this general result. They thought that slavery could 
not be continued in the country if the importation of slaves were made 
to cease, and therefore they provided that, after a certain period, 
the importation might be prevented by the act of the new government. 
The period of twenty years was proposed by some gentleman from 
the North, I think, and many members of the Convention from the 
South opposed it as being too long. Mr. Madison especially was 
somewhat warm against it. He said it would bring too much of this 
mischief into the country to allow the importation of slaves for such a 
period. Because we must take along with us, in the whole of this 
discussion, when we are considering the sentiments and opinions in 
which the constitutional provision originated, that the conviction 
of all men was, that, if the importation of slaves ceased, the white 
race would multiply faster than the black race, and that slavery 
would therefore gradually wear out and expire. It may not be 
improper here to allude to that, I had almost said, celebrated opinion 
of Mr. Madison. You observe, Sir, that the term slave, or slavery, is 
not used in the Constitution. The Constitution does not require 
that "fugitive slaves" shall be delivered up. It requires that per- 
sons held to service in one State, and escaping into another, shall be 
delivered up. Mr. Madison opposed the introduction of the term 
slave, or slavery, into the Constitution; for he said that he did not 



618 AMERICAN PROSE 



wish to see it recognized by the Constitution of the United States 
of America that there could be property in men. 

Now, Sir, all this took place in the Convention in 1787; but 
connected with this, concurrent and contemporaneous, is another 
important transaction, not sufficiently attended to. The Convention 
for framing this Constitution assembled in Philadelphia in May, and 
sat until September, 1787. During all that time the Congress of the 
United States was in session at New York. It was a matter of design, 
as we know, that the Convention should not assemble in the same 
city where Congress was holding its sessions. Almost all the public 
men of the country, therefore, of distinction and eminence, were in 
one or the other of these two assemblies; and I think it happened, 
in some instances, that the same gentlemen were members of both 
bodies. If I mistake not, such was the case with Mr. Rufus King, 
then a member of Congress from Massachusetts. Now, at the very 
time when the Convention in Philadelphia was framing this Consti- 
tution, the Congress in New York was framing the Ordinance of 
1787, for the organization and government of the territory northwest 
of the Ohio. They passed that Ordinance on the 13th of July, 1787, 
at New York, the very month, perhaps the very day, on which these 
questions about the importation of slaves and the character of slavery 
were debated in the Convention at Philadelphia. So far as we can 
now learn, there was a perfect concurrence of opinion between these 
two bodies; and it resulted in this Ordinance of 1787, excluding 
slavery from all the territory over which the Congress of the United 
States had jurisdiction, and that was all the territory northwest of 
the Ohio. Three years before, Virginia and other States had made a 
cession of that great territory to the United States; and a most 
munificent act it was. I never reflect upon it without a disposition 
to do honor and justice, and justice would be the highest honor, to 
Virginia, for the cession of her northwestern territory. I will say, 
Sir, it is one of her fairest claims to the respect and gratitude of the 
country, and that, perhaps, it is only second to that other claim 
which belongs to her, that from her counsels, and from the intel- 
ligence and patriotism of her leading statesmen, proceeded the first 
idea put into practice of the formation of a general constitution of 
the United States. The Ordinance of 1787 applied to the whole ter- 
ritory over which the Congress of the United States had jurisdiction. 



DANIEL WEBSTER 619 



It was adopted two years before the Constitution of the United 
States went into operation; because the Ordinance took effect im- 
mediately on its passage, while the Constitution of the United States, 
having been framed, was to be sent to the States to be adopted by 
their Conventions; and then a government was to be organized 
under it. This Ordinance, then, was in operation and force when 
the Constitution was adopted, and the government put in motion, 
in April, 1789. 

Mr. President, three things are quite clear as historical truths. 
One is, that there was an expectation that, on the ceasing of the im- 
portation of slaves from Africa, slavery would begin to run out here. 
That was hoped and expected. Another is, that, as far as there was 
any power in Congress to prevent the spread of slavery in the United 
States, that power was executed in the most absolute manner, and 
to the fullest extent. An honorable member, whose health does not 
allow him to be here to-day — 

A Senator. He is here. 

I am very happy to hear that he is; may he long be here, and in 
the enjoyment of health to serve his country! The honorable member 
said, the other day, that he considered this Ordinance as the first in 
the series of measures calculated to enfeeble the South, and deprive 
them of their just participation in the benefits and privileges of this 
government. He says, very properly, that it was enacted under the 
old Confederation, and before this Constitution went into effect; but, 
my present purpose is only to say, Mr. President, that it was estab- 
lished with the entire and unanimous concurrence of the whole South. 
Why, there it stands! The vote of every State in the Union was 
unanimous in favor of the Ordinance, with the exception of a single 
individual vote, and that individual vote was given by a Northern 
man. This Ordinance prohibiting slavery for ever northwest of the 
Ohio has the hand and seal of every Southern member in Congress. 
It was therefore no aggression of the North on the South. The 
other and third clear historical truth is, that the Convention meant 
to leave slavery in the States as they found it, entirely under the 
authority and control of the States themselves. 

This was the state of things, Sir, and this the state of opinion, 
under which those very important matters were arranged, and those 



620 AMERICAN PROSE 



three important things done; that is, the establishment of the Con- 
stitution of the United States with a recognition of slavery as it 
existed in the States; the establishment of the ordinance for the 
government of the Northwestern Territory, prohibiting, to the full 
extent of all territory owned by the United States, the introduction 
of slavery into that territory, while leaving to the States all power 
over slavery in their own limits; and creating a power, in the new 
government, to put an end to the importation of slaves, after a 
limited period. There was entire coincidence and concurrence of 
sentiment between the North and the South, upon all these questions, 
at the period of the adoption of the Constitution. But opinions, Sir, 
have changed, greatly changed; changed North and changed South. 
Slavery is not regarded in the South now as it was then. I see an 
honorable member of this body paying me the honor of listening to 
my remarks; he brings to my mind, Sir, freshly and vividly, what I 
have learned of his great ancestor, so much distinguished in his day 
and generation, so worthy to be succeeded by so worthy a grandson, 
and of the sentiments he expressed in the Convention in Philadelphia. 
Here we may pause. There was, if not an entire unanimity, a 
general concurrence of sentiment running through the whole com- 
munity, and especially entertained by the eminent men of all parts 
of the country. But soon a change began, at the North and the South, 
and a difference of opinion showed itself; the North growing much 
more warm and strong against slavery, and the South growing 
much more warm and strong in its support. Sir, there is no genera- 
tion of mankind whose opinions are not subject to be influenced by 
what appear to them to be their present emergent and exigent 
interests. I impute to the South no particularly selfish view in the 
change which has come over her. I impute to her certainly no dis- 
honest view. All that has happened has been natural. It has 
followed those causes which always influence the human mind and 
operate upon it. What, then, have been the causes which have 
created so new a feeling in favor of slavery in the South, which have 
changed the whole nomenclature of the South on that subject, so 
that, from being thought of and described in the terms I have men- 
tioned and will not repeat, it has now become an institution, a 
cherished institution, in that quarter; no evil, no scourge, but a 
great religious, social, and moral blessing, as I think I have heard it 



DANIEL WEBSTER 621 



latterly spoken of ? I suppose this, Sir, is owing to the rapid growth 
and sudden extension of the cotton plantations of the South. So 
far as any motive consistent with honor, justice, and general judg- 
ment could act, it was the cotton interest that gave a new desire to 
promote slavery, to spread it, and to use its labor. I again say that 
this change was produced by causes which must always produce like 
effects. The whole interest of the South became connected, more or 
less, with the extension of slavery. If we look back to the history of 
the commerce of this country in the early years of this government, 
what were our exports ? Cotton was hardly, or but to a very limited, 
extent, known. In 1791 the first parcel of cotton of the growth of 
the United States was exported, and amounted only to 19,200 pounds. 
It has gone on increasing rapidly, until the whole crop may now, 
perhaps, in a season of great product and high prices, amount to a 
hundred millions of dollars. In the years I have mentioned, there 
was more of wax, more of indigo, more of rice, more of almost every 
article of export from the South, than of cotton. When Mr. Jay 
negotiated the treaty of 1794 with England, it is evident from the 
twelfth article of the treaty, which was suspended by the Senate, that 
he did not know that cotton was exported at all from the United 
States. 

Well, Sir, we know what followed. The age of cotton became 
the golden age of our Southern brethren. It gratified their desire 
for improvement and accumulation, at the same time that it excited 
it. The desire grew by what it fed upon, and there soon came to be 
an eagerness for other territory, a new area or new areas for the cul- 
tivation of the cotton crop; and measures leading to this result were 
brought about rapidly, one after another, under the lead of Southern 
men at the head of the government, they having a majority in both 
branches of Congress to accomplish their ends. The honorable mem- 
ber from South Carolina observed that there has been a majority 
aU along in favor of the North. If that be true, Sir, the North has 
acted either very liberaUy and kindly, or very weakly; for they never 
exercised that majority efficiently five times in the history of the 
government, when a division or trial of strength arose. Never. 
Whether they were out-generalled, or whether it was owing to other 
causes, I shall not stop to consider; but no man acquainted with 
the history of the Union can deny that the general lead in the politics 



622 AMERICAN PROSE 



of the country, for three fourths of the period that has elapsed since 
the adoption of the Constitution, has been a Southern lead. 

In 1802, in pursuit of the idea of opening a new cotton region, 
the United States obtained a cession from Georgia of the whole of 
her western territory, now embracing the rich and growing States of 
Alabama and Mississippi. In 1803 Louisiana was purchased from 
France, out of which the States of Louisiana, Arkansas, and Missouri 
have been framed, as slave-holding States. In 1819 the cession of 
Florida was made, bringing in another region adapted to cultivation 
by slaves. Sir, the honorable member from South Carolina thought 
he saw in certain operations of the government, such as the manner 
of collecting the revenue, and the tendency of measures calculated 
to promote emigration into the country, what accounts for the more 
rapid growth of the North than the South. He ascribes that more- 
rapid growth, not to the operation of time, but to the system of 
government and administration established under this Constitution. 
That is matter of opinion. To a certain extent it may be true; but 
it does seem to me that, if any operation of the government can be 
shown in any degree to have promoted the population, and growth, 
and wealth of the North, it is much more sure that there are sundry 
important and distinct operations of the government, about which 
no man can doubt, tending to promote, and which absolutely have 
promoted, the increase of the slave interest and the slave territory 
of the South. It was not time that brought in Louisiana; it was the 
act of men. It was not time that brought in Florida; it was the act 
of men. And lastly, Sir, to complete those acts of legislation which 
have contributed so much to enlarge the area of the institution 
of slavery, Texas, great and vast and illimitable Texas, was added to 
the Union as a slave State in 1845; an d that, Sir, pretty much closed 
the whole chapter, and settled the whole account. 

That closed the whole chapter and settled the whole account, 
because the annexation of Texas, upon the conditions and under the 
guaranties upon which she was admitted, did not leave within the 
control of this government an acre of land, capable of being culti- 
vated by slave labor, between this Capitol and the Rio Grande or 
the Nueces, or whatever is the proper boundary of Texas; not ah 
acre. From that moment, the whole country, from this place to the 
western boundary of Texas, was fixed, pledged, fastened, decided, to 



DANIEL WEBSTER 623 



be slave territory for ever, by the solemn guaranties of law. And I 
now say, Sir, as the proposition upon which I stand this day, and 
upon the truth and firmness of which I intend to act until it is over- 
thrown, that there is not at this moment within the United States, 
or any territory of the United States, a single foot of land, the charac- 
ter of which, in regard to its being free territory or slave territory, is 
not fixed by some law, and some irrepealable law, beyond the power 
of the action of the government. Is it not so with respect to Texas ? 
It is most manifestly so. The honorable member from South Caro- 
lina, at the time of the admission of Texas, held an important post 
in the executive department of the government; he was Secretary of 
State. Another eminent person of great activity and adroitness in 
affairs, I mean the late Secretary of the Treasury, was a conspicuous 
member of this body, and took the lead in the business of annexation, 
in cooperation with the Secretary of State; and I must say that they 
did their business faithfully and thoroughly; there was no botch left 
in it. They rounded it off, and made as close joiner-work as ever 
was exhibited. Resolutions of annexation were brought into Congress, 
fitly joined together, compact, efficient, conclusive upon the great 
object which they had in view, and those resolutions passed. 

Allow me to read a part of these resolutions. It is the third 
clause of the second section of the resolution of the 1st of March, 
1845, for the admission of Texas, which applies to this part of the 
case That clause is as follows: — 

"New States, of convenient size, not exceeding four in number, in 
addition to said State of Texas, and having sufficient population, may 
hereafter, by the consent of said State, be formed out of the territory thereof, 
which shall be entitled to admission under the provisions of the Federal 
Constitution. And such States as may be formed out of that portion of 
said territory lying south of thirty-six degrees thirty minutes north latitude, 
commonly known as the Missouri Compromise line, shall be admitted into 
the Union with or without slavery, as the people of each State asking ad- 
mission may desire; and in such State or States as shall be formed out of 
said territory north of said Missouri Compromise line, slavery or involuntary 
servitude (except for crime) shall be prohibited." 

Now, what is here stipulated, enacted, and secured ? It is, that 
all Texas south of 36 30', which is nearly the whole of it, shall be 
admitted into the Union as a slave State. It was a slave State, and 



624 AMERICAN PROSE 

therefore came in as a slave State; and the guaranty is, that 
States shall be made out of it, to the number of four, in additx 
the State then in existence and admitted at that time by 
resolutions, and that such States as are formed out of that port 
Texas lying south of 36 30' may come in as slave States. I kn 
form of legislation which can strengthen this. I know no m< 
recognition that can add a tittle of weight to it. I listened re 
fully to the resolutions of my honorable friend from Ten. 
He proposed to recognize that stipulation with Texas. But am 
tional recognition would weaken the force of it; because it 3 
here on the ground of a contract, a thing done for a consider; 
It is a law founded on a contract with Texas, and designed to i * 
that contract into effect. A recognition now, founded not o:, 
consideration or any contract, would not be so strong as it now 1 

on the face of the resolution. I know no way, I candidly con 
which this government, acting in good faith, as I trust it alwa 
can relieve itself from that stipulation and pledge, by any ni. 

course of legislation whatever. And therefore, I say again, t •■■/ 
far as Texas is concerned, in the whole of that State south of 3 
which, I suppose, embraces all the territory capable of slave 
vation, there is no land, not an acre, the character of which 
established by law; a law which cannot be repealed witho> the 
violation of a contract, and plain disregard of the public faitl 

I hope, Sir, it is now apparent that my proposition, so f as it 
respects Texas, has been maintained, and that the provision 1 .1 this 
article is clear and absolute; and it has been well suggested by my 
friend from Rhode Island, that that part of Texas which lies nc th of 
36 30' of north latitude, and which may be formed into free t ates, 
is dependent, in like manner, upon the consent of Texas, herself a 
slave State. 

Now, Sir, how came this ? How came it to pass that within these 
walls, where it is said by the honorable member from South Carolina 
that the free States have always had a majority, this resolution of 
annexation, such as I have described it, obtained a majority in both 
houses of Congress? Sir, it obtained that majority by the great 
number of Northern votes added to the entire Southern vote, or, at 
least nearly the whole of the Southern vote. The aggregate was 
made up of Northern and Southern votes. In the House of Repre- 



DANIEL WEBSTER 625 

ives there were about eighty Southern votes and about fifty 

jrn yotes for the admission of Texas. In the Senate the vote 

n , admission of Texas was twenty-seven, and twenty-five against 

d of those twenty-seven votes, constituting the majority, no 

jan thirteen came from the free States, and four of them were 

61"ew England. The whole of these thirteen Senators, consti- 

T ' :.within a fraction, you see, one half of all the votes in this 

or the admission of this immeasurable extent of slave territory, 

It ■mt here by free States. 

jjp, there is not so remarkable a chapter in our history of political 

s, political parties, and political men as is afforded by this 

c ion of a new slave-holding territory, so vast that a bird cannot 

cr it in a week. New England, as I have said, with some of her 

l »tes, supported this measure. Three fourths of the votes of 

•iloving Connecticut were given for it in the other house, and 

$ here. There was one vote for it from Maine, but, I am happy 

not the vote of the honorable member who addressed the 

ithe day before yesterday, and who was then a Representative 

'vlaine in the House of Representatives; but there was one 

•om Maine, ay, and there was one vote for it from Massachu- 

iven by a gentleman then representing, and now living in, the 

dist. t in which the prevalence of Free Soil sentiment for a couple 

of y<. .s or so has defeated the choice of any member to represent it 

in C( jress. Sir, that body of Northern and Eastern men who gave 

those/votes at that time are now seen taking upon themselves, in 

the nomenclature of politics, the appellation of the Northern De- 

mocr ey. They undertook to wield the destinies of this empire, if I 

may 3 ive that name to a republic, and their policy was, and they 

persisLed in it, to bring into this country and under this government 

all the territory they could. They did it, in the case of Texas, under 

pledges, absolute pledges, to the slave interest, and they afterwards 

lent their aid in bringing in these new conquests, to take their chance 

for slavery or freedom. My honorable friend from Georgia, in 

March, 1847, moved the Senate to declare that the war ought not to 

be prosecuted for the conquest of territory, or for the dismemberment 

of Mexico. The whole of the Northern Democracy voted against it. 

He did not get a vote from them. It suited the patriotic and elevated 

sentiments of the Northern Democracy to bring in a world from 



626 AMERICAN PROSE 



among the mountains and valleys of California and New Mexico, or 
any other part of Mexico, and then quarrel about it; to bring it in, 
and then endeavor to put upon it the saving grace of the Wilmot 
Proviso. There were two eminent and highly respectable gentlemen 
from the North, and East, then leading gentlemen in the 
Senate, (I refer, and I do so with entire respect, for I entertain 
for both of those gentlemen, in general, high regard, to Mr. Dix of 
New York and Mr. Niles of Connecticut,) who both voted for the 
admission of Texas. They would not have that vote any other way 
than as it stood; and they would have it as it did stand. I speak of 
the vote upon the annexation of Texas. Those two gentlemen would 
have the resolution of annexation just as it is, without amendment; 
and they voted for it just as it is, and their eyes were all open to its 
true character. The honorable member from South Carolina who 
addressed us the other day was then Secretary of State. His corre- 
spondence with Mr. Murphy, the Charge d'Affaires of the United 
States in Texas, had been published. That correspondence was all 
before those gentlemen, and the Secretary had the boldness and 
candor to avow in that correspondence, that the great object sought 
by the annexation of Texas was to strengthen the slave interest of 

the South. Why, Sir, he said so in so many words 

Mr. Calhoun. Will the honorable Senator permit me to interrupt 
him for a moment ? 

Certainly. 

Mr. Calhoun. I am very reluctant to interrupt the honorable gen- 
tleman; but, upon a point of so much importance, I deem it right to put 
myself rectus in curia. I did not put it upon the ground assumed by the 
Senator. I put it upon this ground: that Great Britain had announced to 
this country, in so many words, that her object was to abolish slavery in 
Texas, and, through Texas, to accomplish the abolition of slavery in the 
United States and the world. The ground I put it on was, that it would 
make an exposed frontier, and, if Great Britain succeeded in her object, it 
would be impossible that that frontier could be secured against the aggres- 
sions of the Abolitionists; and that this government was bound, under the 
guaranties of the Constitution, to protect us against such a state of things. 

That comes, I suppose, Sir, to exactly the same thing. It was, 
that Texas must be obtained for the security of the slave interest 
of the South. 



DANIEL WEBSTER O27 



Mr. Calhoun. Another view is very distinctly given. 

That was the object set forth in the correspondence of a worthy 
gentleman not now living, who preceded the honorable member 
from South Carolina in the Department of State. There repose on 
the files of the Department, as I have occasion to know, strong letters 
from Mr. Upshur to the United States minister in England, and I 
believe there are some to the same minister from the honorable 
Senator himself, asserting to this effect the sentiments of this gov- 
ernment; namely, that Great Britain was expected not to interfere 
to take Texas out of the hands of its then existing government and 
make it a free country. But my argument, my suggestion, is this; 
that those gentlemen who composed the Northern Democracy, when 
Texas was brought into the Union saw clearly that it was brought 
in as a slave country, and brought in for the purpose of being main- 
tained as slave territory, to the Greek Kalends. I rather think the 
honorable gentleman who was then Secretary of State might, in 
some of his correspondence with Mr. Murphy, have suggested that 
it was not expedient to say too much about this object, lest it should 
create some alarm. At any rate, Mr. Murphy wrote to him that 
England was anxious to get rid of the constitution of Texas, because 
it was a constitution establishing slavery; and that what the United 
States had to do was to aid the people of Texas in upholding their 
constitution; but that nothing should be said which should offend 
the fanatical men of the North. But, Sir, the honorable member 
did avow this object himself, openly, boldly, and manfully; he did 
not disguise his conduct or his motives. 

Mr. Calhoun. Never, never. 

What he means he is very apt to say. 

Mr. Calhoun. Always, always. 

And I honor him for it. 

This admission of Texas was in j. 84 5. Then, in 1847, flagrante 
hello between the United States and Mexico, the proposition I have 
mentioned was brought forward by my friend from Georgia, and the 
Northern Democracy voted steadily against it. Their remedy was 
to apply to the acquisitions, after they should come in, the Wilmot 
Proviso. What follows ? These two gentlemen, worthy and honor- 
able and influential men, (and if they had not been they could not 



628 AMERICAN PROSE 



have carried the measure,) these two gentlemen, members of this 
body, brought in Texas, and by their votes they also prevented the 
passage of the resolution of the honorable member from Georgia, 
and then they went home and took the lead in the Free Soil party. 
And there they stand, Sir! They leave us here, bound in honor and 
conscience by the resolutions of annexation; they leave us here, to 
take the odium of fulfilling the obligations in favor of slavery which 
they voted us into, or else the greater odium of violating those obli- 
gations, while they are at home making capital and rousing speeches 
for free soil and no slavery. And therefore I say, Sir, that there is 
not a chapter in our history, respecting public measures and public 
men, more full of what would create surprise, more full of what does 
create, in my mind, extreme mortification, than that of the conduct 
of the Northern Democracy on this subject. 

Mr. President, sometimes, when a man is found in a new relation 
to things around him and to other men, he says the world has changed, 
and that he has not changed. I believe, Sir, that our self-respect 
leads us often to make this declaration in regard to ourselves when 
it is not exactly true. An individual is more apt to change, perhaps, 
than all the world around him. But, under the present circumstances, 
and under the responsibility which I know I incur by what I am now 
stating here, I feel at liberty to recur to the various expressions and 
statements, made at various times, of my own opinions and resolu- 
tions respecting the admission of Texas, and all that has followed. 
Sir, as early as 1836, or in the early part of 1837, there was conversa- 
tion and correspondence between myself and some private friends on 
this project of annexing Texas to the United States; and an honorable 
gentleman with whom I have had a long acquaintance, a friend of 
mine, now perhaps in this chamber, I mean General Hamilton, of 
South Carolina, was privy to that correspondence. I had voted for 
the recognition of Texan independence, because I believed it to be 
an existing fact, surprising and astonishing as it was, and I wished 
well to the new republic; but I manifested from the first utter opposi- 
tion to bringing her, with her slave territory, into the Union. I 
happened, in 1837, to make a public address to political friends in 
New York, and I then stated my sentiments upon the subject. It 
was the first time that I had occasion to advert to it; and I will ask 
a friend near me to have the kindness to read an extract from the 



DANIEL WEBSTER 629 



speech made by me on that occasion. It was delivered in Niblo's 
Garden, in 1837. 

Mr. Greene then read the following extract from the speech of Mr. 
Webster, to which he referred : — 

"Gentlemen, we all see that, by whomsoever possessed, Texas is 
likely to be a slave-holding country; and I frankly avow my entire unwill- 
ingness to do any thing which shall extend the slavery of the African race 
on this continent, or add other slave-holding States to the Union. When I 
say that I regard slavery in itself as a great moral, social, and political evil, I 
only use language which has been adopted by distinguished men, themselves 
citizens of slave-holding States. I shall do nothing, therefore, to favor 
or encourage its further extension. We have slavery already amongst us. 
The Constitution found it in the Union; it recognized it, and gave it solemn 
guaranties. To the full extent of these guaranties we are all bound, in 
honor, in justice, and by the Constitution. All the stipulations contained 
in the Constitution in favor of the slave-holding States which are already in 
the Union ought to be fulfilled, and, so far as depends on me, shall be ful- 
filled, in the fulness of their spirit, and to the exactness of their letter. 
Slavery, as it exists in the States, is beyond the reach of Congress. It is a 
concern of the States themselves; they have never submitted it to Congress, 
and Congress has no rightful power over it. I shall concur, therefore, in no 
act, no measure, no menace, no indication of purpose, which shall interfere 
or threaten to interfere with the exclusive authority of the several States 
over the subject of slavery as it exists within their respective limits. All 
this appears to me to be matter of plain and imperative duty. 

"But when we come to speak of admitting new States, the subject 
assumes an entirely different aspect. Our rights and our duties are then 
both different 

"I see, therefore, no political necessity for the annexation of Texas to 
the Union; no advantages to be derived from it; and objections to it of a 
strong, and, in my judgment, decisive character." 

I have nothing, Sir, to add to, or to take from, those sentiments. 
That speech, the Senate will perceive, was made in 1837. The pur- 
pose of immediately annexing Texas at that time was abandoned or 
postponed; and it was not revived with any vigor for some years. 
In the mean time it happened that I had become a member of the 
executive administration, and was for a short period in the Depart- 
ment of State. The annexation of Texas was a subject of conversa- 
tion, not confidential, with the President and heads of departments, 
as well as with other public men. No serious attempt was then 



630 AMERICAN PROSE 



made, however, to bring it about. I left the Department of State 
in May, 1843, and shortly after I learned, though by means which 
were no way connected with official information, that a design had 
been taken up of bringing Texas, with her slave territory and popu- 
lation, into this Union. I was in Washington at the time, and persons 
are now here who will remember that we had an arranged meeting 
for conversation upon it. I went home to Massachusetts and pro- 
claimed the existence of that purpose, but I could get no audience 
and but little attention. Some did not believe it, and some were 
too much engaged in their own pursuits to give it any heed. They 
had gone to their farms or to their merchandise, and it was impossible 
to arouse any feeling in New England, or in Massachusetts, that 
should combine the two great political parties against this annexation; 
and, indeed, there was no hope of bringing the Northern Democracy 
into that view, for their leaning was all the other way. But, Sir, 
even with Whigs, and leading Whigs, I am ashamed to say, there 
was a great indifference towards the admission of Texas, with slave 
territory, into this Union. 

The project went on. I was then out of Congress. The annexa- 
tion resolutions passed on the 1st of March, 1845; the legislature of 
Texas complied with the conditions and accepted the guaranties; 
for the language of the resolution is, that Texas is to come in "upon 
the conditions and under the guaranties herein prescribed." I was 
returned to the Senate in March, 1845, an d was here in December 
following, when the acceptance by Texas of the conditions proposed 
by Congress was communicated to us by the President, and an act 
for the consummation of the union was laid before the two houses. 
The connection was then not completed. A final law, doing the deed 
of annexation ultimately, had not been passed; and when it was put 
upon its final passage here, I expressed my opposition to it, and 
recorded my vote in the negative; and there that vote stands, with 
the observations that I made upon that occasion. Nor is this the 
only occasion on which I have expressed myself to the same effect. It 
has happened that, between 1837 and this time, on various occasions, 
I have expressed my entire opposition to the admission of slave 
States, or the acquisition of new slave territories, to be added to the 
United States. I know, Sir, no change in my own sentiments, or 
my own purposes, in that respect. I will now ask my friend from 



DANIEL WEBSTER 631 



Rhode Island to read another extract from a speech of mine made 
at a Whig Convention in Springfield, Massachusetts, in the month 
of September, 1847. 

Mr. Greene here read the following extract: — 

"We hear much just now of a panacea for the dangers and evils of 
slavery and slave annexation, which they call the 'Wilmot Proviso.' That 
certainly is a just sentiment, but it is not a sentiment to found any new 
party upon. It is not a sentiment on which Massachusetts Whigs differ. 
There is not a man in this hall who holds to it more firmly than I do, nor 
one who adheres to it more than another. 

"I feel some little interest in this matter, Sir. Did not I commit 
myself in 1837 to the whole doctrine, fully, entirely? And I must be per- 
mitted to say that I cannot quite consent that more recent discoverers 
should claim the merit and take out a patent. 

" I deny the priority of their invention. Allow me to say, Sir, it is not 
their thunder 

"We are to use the first and the last and every occasion which offers 
to oppose the extension of slave power. 

"But I speak of it here, as in Congress, as a political question, a ques- 
tion for statesmen to act upon. We must so regard it. I certainly do not 
mean to say that it is less important in a moral point of view, that it is not 
more important in many other points of view, but as a legislator, or in any 
official capacity, I must look at it, consider it, and decide it as a matter of 
political action." 

On other occasions, in debates here, I have expressed my deter- 
mination to vote for no acquisition, or cession, or annexation, north 
or south, east or west. My opinion has been, that we have territory 
enough, and that we should follow the Spartan maxim, "Improve, 
adorn what you have," seek no further. I think that it was in some 
observations that I made on the three-million loan bill that I avowed 
this sentiment. In short, Sir, it has been avowed quite as often, in 
as many places, and before as many assemblies, as any humble 
opinions of mine ought to be avowed. 

But now that, under certain conditions, Texas is in the Union, 
with all her territory, as a slave State, with a solemn pledge, also, 
that, if she shall be divided into many States, those States may come 
in as slave States south of 36 30', how are we to deal with this 
subject ? I know no way of honest legislation, when the proper time 
comes for the enactment, but to carry into effect all that we have 



632 AMERICAN PROSE 



stipulated to do. I do not entirely agree with my honorable friend 
from Tennessee, that, as soon as the time comes when she is entitled 
to another representative, we should create a new State. On former 
occasions, in creating new States out of territories, we. have generally 
gone upon the idea that, when the population of the territory amounts 
to about sixty thousand, we would consent to its admission as a 
State. But it is quite a different thing when a State is divided, and 
two or more States made out of it. It does not follow in such a case 
that the same rule of apportionment should be applied. That, how- 
ever, is a matter for the consideration of Congress, when the proper 
time arrives. I may not then be here; I may have no vote to give 
on the occasion; but I wish it to be distinctly understood, that, 
according to my view of the matter, this government is solemnly 
pledged, by law and contract, to create new States out of Texas, 
with her consent, when her population shall justify and call for such 
a proceeding, and, so far as such States are formed out of Texan 
territory lying south of 36 30', to let them come in as slave States. 
That is the meaning of the contract which our friends, the Northern 
Democracy, have left us to fulfil; and I, for one, mean to fulfil it, 
because I will not violate the faith of the government. What I mean 
to say is, that the time for the admission of new States formed out 
of Texas, the number of such States, their boundaries, the requisite 
amount of population, and all other things connected with the ad- 
mission, are in the free discretion of Congress, except this; to wit, 
that, when new States formed out of Texas are to be admitted, they 
have a right by legal stipulation and contract, to come in as slave 
States. 

Now, as to California and New Mexico, I hold slavery to be 
excluded from those territories by a law even superior to that which 
admits and sanctions it in Texas. I mean the law of nature, of 
physical geography, the law of the formation of the earth. That 
law settles for ever, with a strength beyond all terms of human 
enactment, that slavery cannot exist in California or New Mexico. 
Understand me, Sir; I mean slavery as we regard it; the slavery of 
the colored race as it exists in the Southern States. I shall not 
discuss the point, but leave it to the learned gentlemen who have 
undertaken to discuss it; but I suppose there is no slavery of that 
description in California now. I understand that peonism, a sort 



DANIEL WEBSTER 633 



of penal servitude, exists there, or rather a sort of voluntary sale of 
a man and his offspring for debt, an arrangement of a peculiar nature 
known to the law of Mexico. But what I mean to say is, that it is 
as impossible that African slavery, as we see it among us, should 
find its way, or be introduced, into California and New Mexico, as 
any other natural impossibility. California and New Mexico are 
Asiatic in their formation and scenery. They are composed of vast 
ridges of mountains of great height, with broken ridges and deep 
valleys. The sides of these mountains are entirely barren; their 
tops capped by perennial snow. There may be in California, now 
made free by its constitution, and no doubt there are, some tracts 
of valuable land. But it. is not so in New Mexico. Pray, what is 
the evidence which every gentleman must have obtained on this 
subject, from information sought by himself or communicated by 
others ? I have inquired and read all I could find, in order to acquire 
information on this important subject. What is there in New Mex- 
ico that could, by any possibility, induce any body to go there with 
slaves ? There are some narrow strips of tillable land on the borders 
of the rivers; but the rivers themselves dry up before midsummer is 
gone. All that the people can do in that region is to raise some 
little articles, some little wheat for their tortillas, and that by irriga- 
tion. And who expects to see a hundred black men cultivating 
tobacco, corn, cotton, rice, or any thing else on lands in New Mexico, 
made fertile only by irrigation ? 

I look upon it, therefore, as a fixed fact, to use the current 
expression of the day, that both California and New Mexico are 
destined to be free, so far as they are settled at all, which I believe, 
in regard to New Mexico, will be but partially for a great length of 
time; free by the arrangement of things ordained by the Power 
above us. I have therefore to say, in this respect also, that this 
country is fixed for freedom, to as many persons as shall ever live 
in it, by a less repealable law than that which attaches to the right 
of holding slaves in Texas; and I will say further, that, if a resolution 
or a bill were now before us, to provide a territorial government for 
New Mexico, I would not vote to put any prohibition into it whatever. 
Such a prohibition would be idle, as it respects any effect it would 
have upon the territory; and I would not take pains uselessly to 
reaffirm an ordinance of nature, nor to reenact the will of God. I 



634 AMERICAN PROSE 



would put in no Wilmot Proviso for the mere purpose of a taunt or a 
reproach. I would put into it no evidence of the votes of superior 
power, exercised for no purpose but to wound the pride, whether 
a just and a rational pride, or an irrational pride, of the citizens of 
the Southern States. I have no such object, no such purpose. They 
would think it a taunt, an indignity; they would think it to be an 
act taking away from them what they regard as a proper equality of 
privilege. Whether they expect to realize any benefit from it or not, 
they would think it at least a plain theoretic wrong; that something 
more or less derogatory to their character and their rights had taken 
place. I propose to inflict no such wound upon any body, unless 
something essentially important to the country, and efficient to the 
preservation of liberty and freedom, is to be effected. I repeat, 
therefore, Sir, and, as I do not propose to address the Senate often 
on this subject, I repeat it because I wish it to be distinctly under- 
stood, that, for the reasons stated, if a proposition were now here 
to establish a government for New Mexico, and it was moved to 
insert a provision for a prohibition of slavery, I would not vote for it. 
Sir, if we were now making a government for New Mexico, and 
any body should propose a Wilmot Proviso, I should treat it exactly 
as Mr. Polk treated that provision for excluding slavery from Oregon. 
Mr. Polk was known to be in opinion decidedly averse to the Wilmot 
Proviso; but he felt the necessity of establishing a government for 
the Territory of Oregon. The proviso was in the bill, but he knew 
it would be entirely nugatory; and, since it must be entirely nuga- 
tory, since it took away no right, no describable, no tangible, no 
appreciable right of the South, he said he would sign the bill for the 
sake of enacting a law to form a government in that Territory, and 
let that entirely useless, and, in that connection, entirely senseless, 
proviso remain, Sir, we hear occasionally of the annexation of 
Canada; and if there be any man, any of the Northern Democracy, 
or any one of the Free Soil party, who supposes it necessary to insert 
a Wilmot Proviso in a territorial government for New Mexico, that 
man would of course be of opinion that it is necessary to protect 
the everlasting snows of Canada from the foot of slavery by the 
same overspreading wing of an act of Congress. Sir, wherever there 
is a substantive good to be done, wherever there is a foot of land to 
be prevented from becoming slave territory, I am ready to assert 



DANIEL WEBSTER 635 



the principle of the exclusion of slavery. I am pledged to it from 
the year 1837; I have been pledged to it again and again; and I 
will perform those pledges; but I will not do a thing unnecessarily 
that wounds the feelings of others, or that does discredit to my own 
understanding. 

Now, Mr. President, I have established, so far as I proposed to 
do so, the proposition with which I set out, and upon which I intend 
to stand or fall; and that is, that the whole territory within the 
former United States, or in the newly acquired Mexican provinces, 
has a fixed and settled character, now fixed and settled by law which 
cannot be repealed; in the case of Texas without a violation of 
public faith, and by no human power in regard to California or 
New Mexico; that, therefore, under one or other of these laws, 
every foot of land in the States or in the Territories has already 
received a fixed and decided character. 

Mr. President, in the excited times in which we live, there is 
found to exist a state of crimination and recrimination between the 
North and South. There are lists of grievances produced by each; 
and those grievances, real or supposed, alienate the minds of one 
portion of the country from the other, exasperate the feelings, and 
subdue the sense of fraternal affection, patriotic love, and mutual 
regard. I shall bestow a little attention, Sir, upon these various 
grievances existing on the one side and on the other. I begin with 
complaints of the South. I will not answer, further than I have, the 
general statements of the honorable Senator from South Carolina, 
that the North has prospered at the expense of the South in con- 
sequence of the manner of administering this government, in the 
collecting of its revenues, and so forth. These are disputed topics, 
and I have no inclination to enter into them. But I will allude to 
other complaints of the South, and especially to one which has in 
my opinion just foundation; and that is, that there has been found 
at the North, among individuals and among legislators, a disinclina- 
tion to perform fully their constitutional duties in regard to the 
return of persons bound to service who have escaped into the free 
States. In that respect, the South, in my judgment, is right, and 
the North is wrong. Every member of every Northern legislature is 
bound by oath, like every other officer in the country, to support the 
Constitution of the United States; and the article of the Constitution 



636 AMERICAN PROSE 



which says to these States that they shall deliver up fugitives from 
service is as binding in honor and conscience as any other article. 
No man fulfils his duty in any legislature who sets himself to find 
excuses, evasions, escapes from this constitutional obligation. I 
have always thought that the Constitution addressed itself to the 
legislatures of the States or to the States themselves. It says that 
those persons escaping to other States "shall be delivered up," and 
I confess I have always been of the opinion that it was an injunction 
upon the States themselves. When it is said that a person escaping 
into another State, and coming therefore within the jurisdiction of 
that State, shall be delivered up, it seems to me the import of the 
clause is, that the State itself, in obedience to the Constitution, shall 
cause him to be delivered up. That is my judgment. I have always 
entertained that opinion, and I entertain it now. But when the sub- 
ject, some years ago, was before the Supreme Court of the United 
States, the majority of the judges held that the power to cause fugi- 
tives from service to be delivered up was a power to be exercised 
under the authority of this government. I do not know, on the 
whole, that it may not have been a fortunate decision. My habit 
is to respect the result of judicial deliberations and the solemnity 
of judicial decisions. As it now stands, the business of seeing that 
these fugitives are delivered up resides in the power of Congress 
and the national judicature, and my friend at the head of the Judi- 
ciary Committee has a bill on the subject now before the Senate, 
which, with some amendments to it, I propose to support, with all 
its provisions, to the fullest extent. And I desire to call the atten- 
tion of all sober-minded men at the North, of all conscientious men, 
of all men who are not carried away by some fanatical idea or some 
false impression, to their constitutional obligations. I put it to all 
the sober and sound minds at the North as a question of morals 
and a question of conscience. What right have they, in their legis- 
lative capacity or any other capacity, to endeavor to get round this 
Constitution, or to embarrass the free exercise of the rights secured 
by the Constitution to the persons whose slaves escape from them ? 
None at all; none at all. Neither in the forum of conscience, nor 
before the face of the Constitution, are they, in my opinion, justified 
in such an attempt. Of course it is a matter for their consideration. 
They probably, in the excitement of the times, have not stopped to 



DANIEL WEBSTER 637 



consider of this. They have followed what seemed to be the current 
of thought and of motives, as the occasion arose, and they have neg- 
lected to investigate fully the real question, and to consider their 
constitutional obligations; which, I am sure, if they did consider, 
they would fulfil with alacrity. I repeat, therefore, Sir, that here 
is a well-founded ground of complaint against the North, which 
ought to be removed, which it is now in the power of the different 
departments of this government to remove; which calls for the enact- 
ment of proper laws authorizing the judicature of this government, 
in the several States, to do all that is necessary for the recapture of 
fugitive slaves and for their restoration to those who claim them. 
Wherever I go, and whenever I speak on the subject, and when I 
speak here I desire to speak to the whole North, I say that the South 
has been injured in this respect, and has a right to complain; and the 
North has been too careless of what I think the Constitution per- 
emptorily and emphatically enjoins upon her as a duty. 

Complaint has been made against certain resolutions that 
emanate from legislatures at the North, and are sent here to us, not 
only on the subject of slavery in this District, but sometimes rec- 
ommending Congress to consider the means of abolishing slavery in 
the States. I should be sorry to be called upon to present any 
resolutions here which could not be referable to any committee or 
any power in Congress; and therefore I should be unwilling to 
receive from the legislature of Massachusetts any instructions to 
present resolutions expressive of any opinion whatever on the sub- 
ject of slavery, as it exists at the present moment in the States, for 
two reasons: first, because I do not consider that the legislature of 
Massachusetts has any thing to do with it; and next, because I do 
not consider that I, as her representative here, have any thing to 
do with it. It has become, in my opinion, quite too common; and 
if the legislatures of the States do not like that opinion, they have a 
great deal more power to put it down than I have to uphold it; it 
has become, in my opinion, quite too common a practice for the State 
legislatures to present resolutions here on all subjects and to instruct 
us on all subjects. There is no public man that requires instruction 
more than I do, or who requires information more than I do, or 
desires it more heartily; but I do not like to have it in too imperative 
a shape. I took notice, with pleasure, of some remarks made upon 



638 AMERICAN PROSE 



this subject, the other day, in the Senate of Massachusetts, by a 
young man of talent and character, of whom the best hopes may be 
entertained. I mean Mr. Hillard. He told the Senate of Massachu- 
setts that he would vote for no instructions whatever to be forwarded 
to members of Congress, nor for any resolutions to be offered expres- 
sive of the sense of Massachusetts as to what her members of Congress 
ought to do. He said that he saw no propriety in one set of public 
servants giving instructions and reading lectures to another set of 
public servants. To his own master each of them must stand or fall, 
and that master is his constituents. I wish these sentiments could 
become more common. I have never entered into the question, and 
never shall, as to the binding force of instructions. I will, however, 
simply say this: if there be any matter pending in this body, while 
I am a member of it, in which Massachusetts has an interest of her 
own not adverse to the general interests of the country, I shall pursue 
her instructions with gladness of heart and with all the efficiency 
which I can bring to the occasion. But if the question be one which 
affects her interest, and at the same time equally affects the interests 
of all the other States, I shall no more regard her particular wishes 
or instructions than I should regard the wishes of a man who might 
appoint me an arbitrator or referee to decide some question of im- 
portant private right between him and his neighbor, and then instruct 
me to decide in his favor. If ever there was a government upon earth 
it is this government, if ever there was a body upon earth it is this 
body, which should consider itself as composed by agreement of all, 
each member appointed by some, but organized by the general con- 
sent of all, sitting here, under the solemn obligations of oath and 
conscience, to do that which they think to be best for the good of 
the whole. 

Then, Sir, there are the Abolition societies, of which I am unwill- 
ing to speak, but in regard to which I have very clear notions and 
opinions. I do not think them useful. I think their operations for 
the last twenty years have produced nothing good or valuable. At 
the same time, I believe thousands of their members to be honest 
and good men, perfectly well-meaning men. They have excited 
feelings; they think they must do something for the cause of liberty; 
and, in their sphere of action, they do not see what else they can do 
than to contribute to an Abolition press, or an Abolition society, or 



DANIEL WEBSTER 639 



to pay an Abolition lecturer. I do not mean to impute gross motives 
even to the leaders of these societies, but I am not blind to the conse- 
quences of their proceedings. I cannot but see what mischiefs then- 
interference with the South has produced. And is it not plain to 
every man? Let any gentleman who entertains doubts on this 
point recur to the debates in the Virginia House of Delegates in 1832, 
and he will see with what freedom a proposition made by Mr. Jefferson 
Randolph for the gradual abolition of slavery was discussed in that 
body. Every one spoke of slavery as he thought; very ignominious 
and disparaging names and epithets were applied to it. The debates 
in the House of Delegates on that occasion, I believe, were all pub- 
lished. They were read by every colored man who could read, and 
to those who could not read, those debates were read by others. 
At that time Virginia was not unwilling or afraid to discuss this 
question, and to let that part of her population know as much of the 
discussion as they could learn. That was in 1832. As has been said 
by the honorable member from South Carolina, these Abolition 
societies commenced their course of action in 1835. It is said, I do 
not know how true it may be, that they sent incendiary publications 
into the slave States; at any rate, they attempted to arouse, and did 
arouse, a very strong feeling; in other words, they created great 
agitation in the North against Southern slavery. Well, what was 
the result ? The bonds of the slaves were bound more firmly than 
before, their rivets were more strongly fastened. Public opinion, 
which in Virginia had begun to be exhibited against slavery, and 
was opening out for the discussion of the question, drew back and 
shut itself up in its castle. I wish to know whether any body in 
Virginia can now talk openly as Mr. Randolph, Governor McDowell, 
and others talked in 1832, and sent their remarks to the press? We 
all, know the fact, and we all know the cause; and every thing that 
these agitating people have done has been, not to enlarge, but to 
restrain, not to set free, but to bind faster, the slave population of 
the South. 

Again, Sir, the violence of the Northern press is complained of. 
The press violent! Why, Sir, the press is violent everywhere. There 
are outrageous reproaches in the North against the South, and there 
are reproaches as vehement in the South against the North. Sir, 
the extremists of both parts of this country are violent; they mistake 



640 AMERICAN PROSE 



loud and violent talk for eloquence and for reason. They think 
that he who talks loudest reasons best. And this we must expect, 
when the press is free, as it is here, and I trust always will be; for, 
with all its licentiousness and all its evil, the entire and absolute 
freedom of the press is essential to the preservation of government 
on the basis of a free constitution. Wherever it exists there will be 
foolish and violent paragraphs in the newspapers, as there are, I 
am sorry to say, foolish and violent speeches in both houses of Con- 
gress. In truth, Sir, I must say that, in my opinion, the vernacular 
tongue of the country has become greatly vitiated, depraved, and 
corrupted by the style of our Congressional debates. And if it were 
possible for those debates to vitiate the principles of the people as 
much as they have depraved their tastes, I should cry out, "God 
save the Republic!" 

Well, in all this I see no solid grievance, no grievance presented 
by the South, within the redress of the government, but the single 
one to which I have referred; and that is, the want of a proper regard 
to the injunction of the Constitution for the delivery of fugitive slaves. 

There are also complaints of the North against the South. I 
need not go over them particularly. The first and gravest is, that 
the North adopted the Constitution, recognizing the existence of 
slavery in the States, and recognizing the right, to a certain extent, 
of the representation of slaves in Congress, under a state of sentiment 
and expectation which does not now exist; and that, by events, by 
circumstances, by the eagerness of the South to acquire territory 
and extend her slave population, the North finds itself, in regard to 
the relative influence of the South and the North, of the free States 
and the slave States, where it never did expect to find itself when 
they agreed to the compact of the Constitution. They complain, 
therefore, that instead of slavery being regarded as an evil, as it was 
then, an evil which all hoped would be extinguished gradually, it is 
now regarded by the South ^.s an institution to be cherished, and 
preserved, and extended; an institution which the South has already 
extended to the utmost of her power by the acquisition of new 
territory. 

Well, then, passing from that, every body in the North reads; 
and every body reads whatsoever the newspapers contain; and the 
newspapers, some of them, especially those presses to which I have 



DANIEL WEBSTER 641 



alluded, are careful to spread about among the people every re- 
proachful sentiment uttered by any Southern man bearing at all 
against the North; every thing that is calculated to exasperate and 
to alienate; and there are many such things, as every body will 
admit, from the South, or some portion of it, which are disseminated 
among the reading people; and they do exasperate, and alienate, 
and produce a most mischievous effect upon the public mind at the 
North. Sir, I would not notice things of this sort appearing in 
obscure quarters; but one thing has occurred in this debate which 
struck me very forcibly. An honorable member from Louisiana 
addressed us the other day on this subject. I suppose there is not a 
more amiable and worthy gentleman in this chamber, nor a gentle- 
man who would be more slow to give offence to any body, and he 
did not mean in his remarks to give offence. But what did he say ? 
Why, Sir, he took pains to run a contrast between the slaves of the 
South and the laboring people of the North, giving the preference, 
in all points of condition, and comfort, and happiness, to the slaves 
of the South. The honorable member, doubtless, did not suppose 
that he gave any offence, or did any injustice. He was merely ex- 
pressing his opinion. But does he know how remarks of that sort 
will be received by the laboring people of the North? Why, who 
are the laboring people of the North ? They are the whole North. 
They are the people who till their own farms with their own hands; 
freeholders, educated men, independent men. Let me say, Sir, that 
five sixths of the whole property of the North is in the hands of the 
laborers of the North; they cultivate their farms, they educate 
their children, they provide the means of independence. If they 
are not freeholders, they earn wages; these wages accumulate, are 
turned into capital, into new freeholds, and small capitalists are 
created. Such is the case, and such the course of things, among 
the industrious and frugal. And what can these people think when 
so respectable and worthy a gentleman as the member from Louisiana 
undertakes to prove that the absolute ignorance and the abject 
slavery of the South are more in conformity with the high purposes 
and destiny of immortal, rational human beings, than the educated, 
the independent free labor of the North ? 

There is a more tangible and irritating cause of grievance at 
the North. Free blacks are constantly employed in the vessels 



642 AMERICAN PROSE 



of the North, generally as cooks or stewards. When the vessel 
arrives at a Southern port, these free colored men are taken on shore, 
by the police or municipal authority, imprisoned, and kept in prison 
till the vessel is again ready to sail. This is not only irritating, but 
exceedingly unjustifiable and oppressive. Mr. Hoar's mission, some 
time ago, to South Carolina, was a well-intended effort to remove 
this cause of complaint. The North thinks such imprisonments 
illegal and unconstitutional; and as the cases occur constantly and 
frequently, they regard it as a great grievance. 

Now, Sir, so far as any of these grievances have their foundation 
in matters of law, they can be redressed, and ought to be redressed ; 
and so far as they have their foundation in matters of opinion, in 
sentiment, in mutual crimination and recrimination, all that we can 
do is to endeavor to allay the agitation, and cultivate a better feeling 
and more fraternal sentiments between the South and the North. 

Mr. President, I should much prefer to have heard from every 
member on this floor declarations of opinion that this Union could 
never be dissolved, than the declaration of opinion by any body, 
that, in any case, under the pressure of any circumstances, such a 
dissolution was possible. I hear with distress and anguish the word 
"secession," especially when it falls from the lips of those who are 
patriotic, and known to the country, and known all over the world, for 
their political services. Secession! Peaceable secession! Sir, your 
eyes and mine are never destined to see that miracle. The dismem- 
berment of this vast country without convulsion! The breaking up 
of the fountains of the great deep without ruffling the surface! Who 
is so foolish, I beg every body's pardon, as to expect to see any such 
thing? Sir, he who sees these States, now revolving in harmony 
around a common centre, and expects to see them quit their places 
and fly off without convulsion, may look the next hour to see the 
heavenly bodies rush from their spheres, and jostle against each 
other in the realms of space, without causing the wreck of the uni- 
verse. There can be no such thing as a peaceable secession. Peace- 
able secession is an utter impossibility. Is the great Constitution 
under which we live, covering this whole country, is it to be thawed 
and melted away by secession, as the snows on the mountain melt 
under the influence of a vernal sun, disappear almost unobserved, 
and run off ? No, Sir! No, Sir! I will not state what might produce 



DANIEL WEBSTER 643 



the disruption of the Union; but, Sir, I see as plainly as I see the 
sun in heaven what that disruption itself must produce; I see that 
it must produce war, and such a war as I will not describe, in its 
twofold character. 

Peaceable secession! Peaceable secession! The concurrent 
agreement of all the members of this great republic to separate! 
A voluntary separation, with alimony on one side and on the other. 
Why, what would be the result? Where is the line to be drawn? 
What States are to secede ? What is to remain American ? What 
! am I to be ? An American no longer ? Am I to become a sectional 
man, a local man, a separatist, with no country in common with the 
gentlemen who sit around me here, or who fill the other house of 
Congress? Heaven forbid! Where is the flag of the republic to 
remain ? Where is the eagle still to tower ? or is he to cower, and 
shrink, and fall to the ground ? Why, Sir, our ancestors, our fathers 
and our grandfathers, those of them that are yet living amongst us 
with prolonged lives, would rebuke and reproach us; and our chil- 
dren and our grandchildren would cry out shame upon us, if we of 
this generation should dishonor these ensigns of the power of the 
government and the harmony of that Union which is every day felt 
among us with so much joy and gratitude. What is to become of 
the army ? What is to become of the navy ? What is to become of 
the public lands ? How is each of the thirty States to defend itself ? 
I know, although the idea has not been stated distinctly, there is 
to be, or it is supposed possible that there will be, a Southern Con- 
federacy. I do not mean, when I allude to this statement, that any 
one seriously contemplates such a state of things. I do not mean 
to say that it is true, but I have heard it suggested elsewhere, that 
the idea has been entertained, that, after the dissolution of this 
Union, a Southern Confederacy might be formed. I am sorry, Sir, 
that it has ever been thought of, talked of, or dreamed of, in the 
wildest flights of human imagination. But the idea, so far as it 
exists, must be of a separation, assigning the slave States to one side 
and the free States to the other. Sir, I may express myself too 
strongly, perhaps, but there are impossibilities in the natural as well 
as in the physical world, and I hold the idea of a separation of these 
States, those that are free to form one government, and those that 
are slave-holding to form another, as such an impossibility. We 



644 AMERICAN PROSE 



could not separate the States by any such line, if we were to draw it. 
We could not sit down here to-day and draw a line of separation 
that would satisfy any five men in the country. There are natural 
causes that would keep and tie us together, and there are social and 
domestic relations which we could not break if we would, and which 
we should not if we could. 

Sir, nobody can look over the face of this country at the present 
moment, nobody can see where its population is the most dense 
and growing, without being ready to admit, and compelled to admit, 
that ere long the strength of America will be in the Valley of the 
Mississippi. Well, now, Sir, I beg to inquire what the wildest en- 
thusiast has to say on the possibility of cutting that river in two, and 
leaving free States at its source and on its branches, and slave States 
down near its mouth, each forming a separate government ? Pray, 
Sir, let me say to the people of this country, that these things are. 
worthy of their pondering and of their consideration. Here, Sir, 
are five millions of freemen in the free States north of the river Ohio. 
Can any body suppose that this population can be severed, by a 
line that divides them from the territory of a foreign and an alien 
government, down somewhere, the Lord knows where, upon the 
lower banks of the Mississippi ? What would become of Missouri ? 
Will she join the arrondissement of the slave States ? Shall the man 
from the Yellow Stone and the Platte be connected, in the new 
republic, with the man who lives on the southern extremity of the 
Cape of Florida ? Sir, I am ashamed to pursue this line of remark. 
I dislike it, I have an utter disgust for it. I would rather hear of 
natural blasts and mildews, war, pestilence, and famine, than to 
hear gentlemen talk of secession. To break up this great government! 
to dismember this glorious country! to astonish Europe with an act 
of folly such as Europe for two centuries has never beheld in any 
government or any people!! No, Sir! no, Sir! There will be no seces- 
sion! Gentlemen are not serious when they talk of secession. 

Sir, I hear there is to be a convention held at Nashville. I am 
bound to believe that, if worthy gentlemen meet at Nashville in 
convention, their object will be to adopt conciliatory counsels; to 
advise the South to forbearance and moderation, and to advise the 
North to forbearance and moderation; and to inculcate principles 
of brotherly love and affection, and attachment to the Constitution 



DANIEL WEBSTER 645 



of the country as it now is. I believe, if the convention meet at all, 
it will be for this purpose; for certainly, if they meet for any purpose 
hostile to the Union, they have been singularly inappropriate in 
their selection of a place. I remember, Sir, that, when the treaty of 
Amiens was concluded between France and England, a sturdy Eng- 
lishman and a distinguished orator, who regarded the conditions of 
the peace as ignominious to England, said in the House of Commons, 
that, if King William could know the terms of that treaty, he would 
turn in his coffin! Let me commend this saying of Mr. Windham, in 
all its emphasis and in all its force, to any persons who shall meet 
at Nashville for the purpose of concerting measures for the overthrow 
of this Union over the bones of Andrew Jackson! 

Sir, I wish now to make two remarks, and hasten to a conclusion. 
I wish to say, in regard to Texas, that if it should be hereafter, at 
any time, the pleasure of the government of Texas to cede to the 
United States a portion, larger or smaller, of her territory which 
lies adjacent to New Mexico, and north of 36 30' of north latitude, 
to be formed into free States, for a fair equivalent in money or in 
the payment of her debt, I think it an object well worthy the con- 
sideration of Congress, and I shall be happy to concur in it myself, 
if I should have a connection with the government at that time. 

I have one other remark to make. In my observations upon 
slavery as it has existed in this country, and as it now exists, I have 
expressed no opinion of the mode of its extinguishment or meliora- 
tion. I will say, however, though I have nothing to propose, because 
I do not deem myself so competent as other gentlemen to take any 
lead on this subject, that if any gentleman from the South shall 
propose a scheme, to be carried on by this government upon a large 
scale, for the transportation of free colored people to any colony or 
any place in the world, I should be quite disposed to incur almost 
any degree of expense to accomplish that object. Nay, Sir, following 
an example set more than twenty years ago by a great man, then a 
Senator from New York, I would return to Virginia, and through 
her to the whole South, the money received from the lands and ter- 
ritories ceded by her to this government, for any such purpose as 
"to remove, in whole or in part, or in any way to diminish or deal 
beneficially with, the free colored population of the Southern States. 
I have said that I honor Virginia for her cession of this territory. 



646 AMERICAN PROSE 



There have been received into the treasury of the United States 
eighty millions of dollars, the proceeds of the sales of the public 
lands ceded by her. If the residue should be sold at the same rate, 
the whole aggregate will exceed two hundred millions of dollars. If 
Virginia and the South see fit to adopt any proposition to relieve 
themselves from the free people of color among them, or such as 
may be made free, they have my full consent that the government 
shall pay them any sum of money out of the proceeds of that cession 
which may be adequate to the purpose. 

And now, Mr. President, I draw these observations to a close. I 
have spoken freely, and I meant to do so. I have sought to make 
no display. I have sought to enliven the occasion by no animated 
discussion, nor have I attempted any train of elaborate argument. 
I have wished only to speak my sentiments, fully and at length, 
being desirous, once and for all, to let the Senate know, and to let 
the country know, the opinions and sentiments which I entertain 
on all these subjects. These opinions are not likely to be suddenly 
changed. If there be any future service that I can render to the 
country, consistently with these sentiments and opinions, I shall 
cheerfully render it. If there be not, I shall still be glad to have had 
an opportunity to disburden myself from the bottom of my heart, 
and to make known every political sentiment that therein exists. 

And now, Mr. President, instead of speaking of the possibility 
or utility of secession, instead of dwelling in those caverns of dark- 
ness, instead of groping with those ideas so full of all that is horrid 
and horrible, let us come out into the light of day; let us enjoy the 
fresh air of Liberty and Union; let us cherish those hopes which belong 
to us; let us devote ourselves to those great objects that are fit for 
our consideration and our action; let us raise our conceptions to the 
magnitude and the importance of the duties that devolve upon us; 
let our comprehension be as broad as the country for which we act, 
our aspirations as high as its certain destiny; let us not be pigmies 
in a case that calls for men. Never did there devolve on any genera- 
tion of men higher trusts than now devolve upon us, for the preser- 
vation of this Constitution and the harmony and peace of all who 
are destined to live under it. Let us make our generation one of 
the strongest and brightest links in that golden chain which is 
destined, I fondly believe, to grapple the people of all the States 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 647 

to this Constitution for ages to come. We have a great, popular, 
constitutional government, guarded by law and by judicature, and 
defended by the affections of the whole people. No monarchical 
throne presses these States together, no iron chain of military power 
encircles them; they live and stand under a government popular in 
its form, representative in its character, founded upon principles 
of equality, and so constructed, we hope, as to last for ever. In all 
its history it has been beneficent; it has trodden down no man's 
liberty; it has crushed no State. Its daily respiration is liberty and 
patriotism; its yet youthful veins are full of enterprise, courage, and 
honorable love of glory and renown. Large before, the country has 
now, by recent events, become vastly larger. This republic now 
extends, with a vast breadth, across the whole continent. The two 
great seas of the world wash the one and the other shore. We realize, 
on a mighty scale, the beautiful description of the ornamental border 
of the buckler of Achilles: — 

"Now, the broad shield complete, the artist crowned 
With his last hand, and poured the ocean round; 
In living silver seemed the waves to roll, 
And beat the buckler's verge, and bound the whole." 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

ADDRESS AT COOPER INSTITUTE 

Mr. President and Fellow-citizens op New York: The 
facts with which I shall deal this evening are mainly old and familiar; 
nor is there anything new in the general use I shall make of them. If 
there shall be any novelty, it will be in the mode of presenting the 
facts, and the inferences and observations following that presenta- 
tion. In his speech last autumn at Columbus, Ohio, as reported 
in the "New- York Times," Senator Douglas said: 

Our fathers, when they framed the government under which we live, 
understood this question just as well, and even better, than we do now. 

I fully indorse this, and I adopt it as a text for this discourse. I 
so adopt it because it furnishes a precise and an agreed starting- 
point for a discussion between Republicans and that wing of the 



648 AMERICAN PROSE 



Democracy headed by Senator Douglas. It simply leaves the in- 
quiry: What was the understanding those fathers had of the question 
mentioned ? 

What is the frame of government under which we live ? The 
answer must be, "The Constitution of the United States." That 
Constitution consists of the original, framed in 1787, and under 
which the present government first went into operation, and twelve 
subsequently framed amendments, the first ten of which were framed 
in 1789. 

Who were our fathers that framed the Constitution ? I suppose 
the "thirty-nine" who signed the original instrument may be fairly 
called our fathers who framed that part of the present government. 
It is almost exactly true to say they framed it, and it is altogether 
true to say they fairly represented the opinion and sentiment of the 
whole nation at that time. Their names, being familiar to nearly 
all, and accessible to quite all, need not now be repeated. 

I take these "thirty-nine," for the present, as being "our fathers 
who framed the government under which we live." What is the 
question which, according to the text, those fathers understood "just 
as well, and even better, than we do now" ? 

It is this: Does the proper division of local from Federal author- 
ity, or anything in the Constitution, forbid our Federal Government 
to control as to slavery in our Federal Territories ? 

Upon this, Senator Douglas holds the affirmative, and Republi- 
cans the negative. This affirmation and denial form an issue; and 
this issue — this question — is precisely what the text declares our 
fathers understood "better than we." Let us now inquire whether 
the "thirty-nine," or any of them, ever acted upon this question; 
and if they did, how they acted upon it — how they expressed that 
better understanding. In 1784, three years before the Constitution, 
the United States then owning the Northwestern Territory and no 
other, the Congress of the Confederation had before them the ques- 
tion o f prohibiting slavery in that Territory; and four of the "thirty- 
nine" who afterward framed the Constitution were in that Congress, 
and voted on that question. Of these, Roger Sherman, Thomas 
Mifflin, and Hugh Williamson voted for the prohibition, thus showing 
that, in their understanding, no line dividing local from Federal 
authority, nor anything else, properly forbade the Federal Govern- 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 649 

ment to control as to slavery in Federal territory. The other of the 
four, James McHenry, voted against the prohibition, showing that 
for some cause he thought it improper to vote for it. 

In 1787, still before the Constitution, but while the convention 
was in session framing it, and while the Northwestern Territory still 
was the only Territory owned by the United States, the same ques- 
tion of prohibiting slavery in the Territory again came before the 
Congress of the Confederation; and two more of the "thirty-nine" 
who afterward signed the Constitution were in that Congress, and 
voted on the question. They were William Blount and William Few; 
and they both voted for the prohibition — thus showing that in their 
understanding no line dividing local from Federal authority, nor 
anything else, properly forbade the Federal Government to control 
as to slavery in Federal territory. This time the prohibition became 
a law, being part of what is now well known as the ordinance of '87. 

The question of Federal control of slavery in the Territories 
seems not to have been directly before the convention which framed 
the original Constitution; and hence it is not recorded that the 
"thirty-nine," or any of them, while engaged on that instrument, 
expressed any opinion on that precise question. 

In 1789, by the first Congress which sat under the Constitution, 
an act was passed to enforce the ordinance of '87, including the 
prohibition of slavery in the Northwestern Territory. The bill for 
this act was reported by one of the "thirty-nine" — Thomas Fitz- 
simmons, then a member of the House of Representatives from 
Pennsylvania. It went through all its stages without a word of 
opposition, and finally passed both branches without ayes and nays, 
which is equivalent to a unanimous passage. In this Congress there 
were sixteen of the thirty-nine fathers who framed the original 
Constitution. They were John Langdon, Nicholas Gilman, Wm. S. 
Johnson, Roger Sherman, Robert Morris, Thos. Fitzsimmons, Wil- 
liam Few, Abraham Baldwin, Rufus King, William Paterson, George 
Clymer, Richard Bassett, George Read, Pierce Butler, Daniel Car- 
roll, and James Madison. 

This shows that, in their understanding, no line dividing local 
from Federal authority, nor anything in the Constitution, properly 
forbade Congress to prohibit slavery in the Federal territory; else 
both their fidelity to correct principle, and their oath to support 



650 AMERICAN FROSE 



the Constitution, would have constrained them to oppose the pro- 
hibition. 

Again-, George Washington, another of the "thirty-nine," was 
then President of the United States, and as such approved and 
signed the bill, thus completing its validity as a law, and thus showing 
that, in his understanding, no line dividing local from Federal au- 
thority, nor anything in the Constitution, forbade the Federal 
Government to control as to slavery in Federal territory. 

No great while after the adoption of the original Constitution, 
North Carolina ceded to the Federal Government the country now 
constituting the State of Tennessee; and a few years later Georgia 
ceded that which now constitutes the States of Mississippi and Ala- 
bama. In both deeds of cession it was made a condition by the 
ceding States that the Federal Government should not prohibit slavery 
in the ceded country. Besides this, slavery was then actually in 
the ceded country. Under these circumstances, Congress, on taking 
charge of these countries, did not absolutely prohibit slavery within 
them. But they did interfere with it — take control of it — even 
there, to a certain extent. In 1798 Congress organized the Terri- 
tory of Mississippi. In the act of organization they prohibited the 
bringing of slaves into the Territory from any place without the 
United States, by fine, and giving freedom to slaves so brought. 
This act passed both branches of Congress without yeas and nays. 
In that Congress were three of the "thirty-nine" who framed the 
original Constitution. They were John Langdon, George Read, and 
Abraham Baldwin. They all probably voted for it. Certainly they 
would have placed their opposition to it upon record if, in their 
understanding, any line dividing local from Federal authority, or 
anything in the Constitution, properly forbade the Federal Govern- 
ment to control as to slavery in Federal territory. 

In 1803 the Federal Government purchased the Louisiana coun- 
try. Our former territorial acquisitions came from certain of our own 
States; but this Louisiana country was acquired from a foreign 
nation. In 1804 Congress gave a territorial organization to that 
part of it which now constitutes the State of Louisiana. New Or- 
leans, lying within that part, was an old and comparatively large 
city. There were other considerable towns and settlements, and 
slavery was extensively and thoroughly intermingled with the people. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 651 

Congress did not, in the Territorial Act, prohibit slavery; but they 
did interfere with it — take control of it — in a more marked and 
extensive way than they did in the case of Mississippi. The sub- 
stance of the provision therein made in relation to slaves was: 

1st. That no slave should be imported into the Territory from 
foreign parts. 

2d. That no slave should be carried into it who had been im- 
ported into the United States since the first day of May, 1798. 

3d. That no slave should be carried into it, except by the owner, 
and for his own use as a settler; the penalty in all the cases being 
a fine upon the violator of the law, and freedom to the slave. 

This act also was passed without ayes or nays. In the Congress 
which passed it there were two of the "thirty-nine." They were 
Abraham Baldwin and Jonathan Dayton. As stated in the case of 
Mississippi, it is probable they both voted for it. They would not 
have allowed it to pass without recording their opposition to it if, 
in their understanding, it violated either the line properly dividing 
local from Federal authority, or any provision of the Constitution. 

In 1810-20 came and passed the Missouri question. Many 
votes were taken, by yeas and nays, in both branches of Congress, 
upon the various phases of the general question. Two of the "thirty- 
nine"— Ruf us King and Charles Pinckney — were members of that 
Congress. Mr. King steadily voted for slavery prohibition and 
against all compromises, while Mr. Pinckney as steadily voted 
against slavery prohibition and against all compromises. By this, 
Mr. King showed that, in his. understanding, no line dividing local 
from Federal authority, nor anything in the Constitution, was vio- 
lated by Congress prohibiting slavery in Federal territory; while 
Mr. Pinckney, by his votes, showed that, in his understanding, there 
was some sufficient reason for opposing such prohibition in that case. 

The cases I have mentioned are the only acts of the "thirty- 
nine," or of any of them, upon the direct issue, which I have been 
able to discover. 

To enumerate the persons who thus acted as being four in 1784, 
two in 1787, seventeen in 1789, three in 1798, two in 1804, and two 
in 1819-20, there would be thirty of them. But this would be count- 
ing John Langdon, Roger Sherman, William Few, Rufus King, and 
George Read each twice, and Abraham Baldwin three times. The 



652 AMERICAN PROSE 



true number of those of the "thirty-nine" whom I have shown to have 
acted upon the question which, by the text, they understood better 
than we, is twenty-three, leaving sixteen not shown to have acted 
upon it in any way. 

Here, then, we have twenty-three out of our thirty-nine fathers 
"who framed the government under which we live," who have, upon 
their official responsibility and their corporal oaths, acted upon the 
very question which the text affirms they "understood just as well, 
and even better, than we do now"; and twenty-one of them — a 
clear majority of the whole "thirty-nine" — so acting upon it as to 
make them guilty of gross political impropriety and wilful perjury 
if, in their understanding, any proper division between local and 
Federal authority, or anything in the Constitution they had made 
themselves, and sworn to support, forbade the Federal Government 
to control as to slavery in the Federal Territories. Thus the twenty- 
one acted; and, as actions speak louder than words, so actions un- 
der such responsibility speak still louder. 

Two of the twenty-three voted against congressional prohibition 
of slavery in the Federal Territories, in the instances in which they 
acted upon the question. But for what reasons they so voted is not 
known. They may have done so because they thought a proper 
division of local from Federal authority, or some provision or principle 
of the Constitution, stood in the way; or they may, without any 
such question, have voted against the prohibition on what appeared 
to them to be sufficient grounds of expediency. No one who has 
sworn to support the Constitution can conscientiously vote for what 
he understands to be an unconstitutional measure, however expedient 
he may think it; but one may and ought to vote against a measure 
which he deems constitutional if, at the same time, he deems it 
inexpedient. It, therefore, would be unsafe to set down even the 
two who voted against the prohibition as having done so because, in 
their understanding, any proper division of local from Federal au- 
thority, or anything in the Constitution, forhade the Federal Govern- 
ment to control as to slavery in Federal territory. 

The remaining sixteen of the "thirty-nine," so far as I have 
discovered, have left no record of their understanding upon the 
direct question of Federal control of slavery in the Federal Terri- 
tories. But there is much reason to believe that their understanding 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 653 

upon that question would not have appeared different from that of 
their twenty-three compeers, had it been manifested at all. 

For the purpose of adhering rigidly to the text, I have purposely 
omitted whatever understanding may have been manifested by any 
person, however distinguished, other than the thirty-nine fathers 
who framed the original Constitution; and, for the same reason, I 
have also omitted whatever understanding may have been mani- 
fested by any of the "thirty-nine" even on any other phase of the 
general question of slavery. If we should look into their acts and 
declarations on those other phases, as the foreign slave-trade, and 
the morality and policy of slavery generally, it would appear to us 
that on the direct question of Federal control of slavery in Federal 
Territories, the sixteen, if they had acted at all, would probably 
have acted just as the twenty- three did. Among that sixteen were 
several of the most noted antislavery men of those times, — as Dr. 
Franklin, Alexander Hamilton, and Gouverneur Morris, — while 
there was 1 not one now known to have been otherwise, unless it may 
be John Rutledge, of South Carolina. 

The sum of the whole is that of our thirty-nine fathers who 
framed the original Constitution, twenty-one — a clear majority of 
the whole — certainly understood that no proper division of local from 
Federal authority, nor any part of the Constitution, forbade the 
Federal Government to control slavery in the Federal Territories; 
while all the rest had probably the same understanding. Such, 
unquestionably, was the understanding of our fathers who framed 
the original Constitution; and the text affirms that they understood 
the question "better than we." 

But, so far, I have been considering the understanding of the 
question manifested by the framers of the original Constitution. In 
and by the original instrument, a mode was provided for amending it; 
and, as I have already stated, the present frame of "the government 
under which we live" consists of that original, and twelve amendatory 
articles framed and adopted since. Those who now insist that Fed- 
eral control of slavery in Federal Territories violates the Constitution, 
point us to the provisions which they suppose it thus violates; and, 
as I understand, they all fix upon provisions in these amendatory 
articles, and not in the original instrument. The Supreme Court, 
in the Dred Scott case, plant themselves upon the fifth amendment, 



654 AMERICAN PROSE 



which provides that no person shall be deprived of "life, liberty, or 
property without due process of law"; while Senator Douglas and 
his peculiar adherents plant themselves upon the tenth amendment, 
providing that "the powers not delegated to the United States by 
the Constitution" "are reserved to the States respectively, or to the 
people." 

Now, it so happens that these amendments were framed by the 
first Congress which sat under the Constitution — the identical Con- 
gress which passed the act, already mentioned, enforcing the prohibi- 
tion of slavery in the Northwestern Territory. Not only was it the 
same Congress, but they were the identical, same individual men 
who, at the same session, and at the same time within the session, 
had under consideration, and in progress toward maturity, these 
constitutional amendments, and this act prohibiting slavery in all 
the territory the nation then owned. The constitutional amendments 
were introduced before, and passed after, the act enforcing the ordi- 
nance of '87 ; so that, during the whole pendency of the act to enforce 
the ordinance, the constitutional amendments were also pending. 

The seventy-six members of that Congress, including sixteen of 
the framers of the original Constitution, as before stated, were pre- 
eminently our fathers who framed that part of "the government 
under which we live" which is now claimed as forbidding the Federal 
Government to control slavery in the Federal Territories. 

Is it not a little presumptuous in any one at this day to affirm 
that the two things which that Congress deliberately framed, and 
carried to maturity at the same time, are absolutely inconsistent 
with each other ? And does not such affirmation become impudently 
absurd when coupled with the other affirmation, from the same 
mouth, that those who did the two things alleged to be inconsistent, 
understood whether they really were inconsistent better than we — 
better than he who affirms that they are inconsistent ? 

It is surely safe to assume that the thirty-nine framers of the 
original Constitution, and the seventy-six members of the Congress 
which framed the amendments thereto, taken together, do certainly 
include those who may be fairly called "our fathers who framed the 
government under which we live." And so assuming, I defy any 
man to show that any one of them ever, in his whole life, declared 
that, in his understanding, any proper division of local from Fed- 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 655 



eral authority, or any part of the Constitution, forbade the Federal 
Government to control as to slavery in the Federal Territories. I 
go a step further. I defy any one to show that any living man in 
the whole world ever did, prior to the beginning of the present cen- 
tury (and I might almost say prior to the beginning of the last half 
of the present century), declare that, in this understanding, any 
proper division of local from Federal authority, or any part of the 
Constitution, forbade the Federal Government to control as to 
slavery in the Federal Territories. To those who now so declare I 
give not only "our fathers who framed the government under which 
we live," but with them all other living men within the century in 
which it was framed, among whom to search, and they shall not be 
able to find the evidence of a single man agreeing with them. 

Now, and here, let me guard a little against being misunderstood. 
I do not mean to say we are bound to follow implicitly in whatever 
our fathers did. To do so would be to discard all the lights of current 
experience — to reject all progress, all improvement. What I do say 
is that if we would supplant the opinions and policy of our fathers 
in any case, we should do so upon evidence so conclusive, and argu- 
ment so clear, that even their great authority, fairly considered and 
weighed, cannot stand; and most surely not in a case whereof we 
ourselves declare they understood the question better than we. 

If any man at this day sincerely believes that a proper division 
of local from Federal authority, or any part of the Constitution, 
forbids the Federal Government to control as to slavery in the Fed- 
eral Territories, he is right to say so, and to enforce his position by 
all truthful evidence and fair argument which he can. But he has 
no right to mislead others, who have less access to history, and less 
leisure to study it, into the false belief that "our fathers who framed 
the government under which we live" were of the same opinion — 
thus substituting falsehood and deception for truthful evidence and 
fair argument. If any man at this day sincerely believes "our fathers 
who framed the government under which we live" used and applied 
principles, in other cases, which ought to have led them to under- 
stand that a proper division of local from Federal authority, or some 
part of the Constitution, forbids the Federal Government to control 
as to slavery in the Federal Territories, he is right to say so. But he 
should, at the same time, brave the responsibility of declaring that, 



656 AMERICAN PROSE 



in his opinion, he understands their principles better than they did 
themselves; and especially should he not shirk that responsibility by 
asserting that they "understood the question just as well, and even 
better, than we do now." 

But enough! Let all who believe that "our fathers who framed 
the government under which we live understood this question just 
as well, and even better, than we do now," speak as they spoke, and 
act as they acted upon it. This is all Republicans ask — all Republi- 
cans desire — in relation to slavery. As those fathers marked it, so 
let it be again marked, as an evil not to be extended, but to be tol- 
erated and protected only because of and so far as its actual presence 
among us makes that toleration and protection a necessity. Let all 
the guaranties those fathers gave it be not grudgingly, but fully and 
fairly, maintained. For this Republicans contend, and with this, 
so far as I know or believe, they will be content. 

And now, if they would listen, — as I suppose they will not, — I 
would address a few words to the Southern people. 

I would say to them: You consider yourselves a reasonable and 
a just people; and I consider that in the general qualities of reason 
and justice you are not inferior to any other people. Still, when 
you speak of us Republicans, you do so only to denounce us as 
reptiles, or, at the best, as no better than outlaws. You will grant a 
hearing to pirates or murderers, but nothing like it to "Black Republi- 
cans." In all your contentions with one another, each of you deems 
an unconditional condemnation of "Black Republicanism" as the 
first thing to be attended to. Indeed, such condemnation of us 
seems to be an indispensable prerequisite — license, so to speak — 
among you to be admitted or permitted to speak at all. Now can 
you or not be prevailed upon to pause and to consider whether this 
is quite just to us, or even to yourselves ? Bring forward your charge 
and specifications, and then be patient long enough to hear us deny 
or justify. 

You say we are sectional. We deny it. That makes an issue; 
and the burden of proof is upon you. You produce your proof; and 
what is it ? Why, that our party has no existence in your section — 
gets no votes in your section. The fact is substantially true; but 
does it prove the issue ? If it does, then in case we should, without 
change of principle, begin to get votes in your section, we should 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 657 

thereby cease to be sectional. You cannot escape this conclusion; 
and yet, are you willing to abide by it ? If you are, you will probably 
soon find that we have ceased to be sectional, for we shall get votes 
in your section this very year. You will then begin to discover, as 
the truth plainly is, that your proof does not touch the issue. The 
fact that we get no votes in your section is a fact of your making, 
and not of ours. And if there be fault in that fact, that fault is pri- 
marily yours, and remains so until you show that we repel you by 
some wrong principle or practice. If we do repel you by any wrong 
principle or practice, the fault is ours; but this brings you to where 
you ought to have started — to a discussion of the right or wrong of 
our principle. If our principle, put in practice, would wrong your 
section for the benefit of ours, or for any other object, then our prin- 
ciple, and we with it, are sectional, and are justly opposed and 
denounced as such. Meet us, then, on the question of whether our 
principle, put in practice, would wrong your section; and so meet us 
as if it were possible that something may be said on our side. Do 
you accept the challenge? No! Then you really believe that the 
principle which "our fathers who framed the government under 
which we live" thought so clearly right as to adopt it, and indorse 
it again and again, upon their official oaths, is in fact so clearly wrong 
as to demand your condemnation without a moment's consideration. 

Some of you delight to flaunt in our faces the warning against 
sectional parties given by Washington in his Farewell Address. Less 
than eight years before Washington gave that warning, he had, as 
President of the United States, approved and signed an act of Con- 
gress enforcing the prohibition of slavery in the Northwestern Terri- 
tory, which act embodied the policy of the government upon that 
subject up to and at the very moment he penned that warning; and 
about one year after he penned it, he wrote Lafayette that he con- 
sidered that prohibition a wise measure, expressing in the same 
connection his hope that we should at some time have a confederacy 
of free States. 

Bearing this in mind, and seeing that sectionalism has since 
arisen upon this same subject, is that warning a weapon in your 
hands against us, or in our hands against you ? Could Washington 
himself speak, would he cast the blame of that sectionalism upon 
us, who sustain his policy, or upon you, who repudiate it? We 



658 AMERICAN PROSE 



respect that warning of Washington, and we commend it to you, 
together with his example pointing to the right application of it. 

But you say you are conservative — eminently conservative — 
while we are revolutionary, destructive, or something of the sort. 
What is conservatism? Is it not adherence to the old and tried, 
against the new and untried ? We stick to, contend for, the identical 
old policy on the point in controversy which was adopted by "our 
fathers who framed the government under which we live"; while 
you with one accord reject, and scout, and spit upon that old policy, 
and insist upon substituting something new. True, you disagree 
among yourselves as to what that substitute shall be. You are 
divided on new propositions and plans, but you are unanimous in 
rejecting and denouncing the old policy of the fathers. Some of you 
are for reviving the foreign slave-trade; some for a congressional 
slave code for the Territories; some for Congress forbidding the 
Territories to prohibit slavery within their limits; some for main- 
taining slavery in the Territories through the judiciary; some for 
the "gur-reat pur-rinciple" that "if one man would enslave another, 
no third man should object," fantastically called "popular sover- 
eignty"; but never a man among you is in favor of Federal prohibi- 
tion of slavery in Federal Territories, according to the practice of 
"our fathers who framed the government under which we live." 
Not one of all your various plans can show a precedent or an advocate 
in the century within which our government originated. Consider, 
then, whether your claim of conservatism for yourselves, and your 
charge of destructiveness against us, are based on the most clear and 
stable foundations. 

Again, you say we have made the slavery question more prom- 
inent than it formerly was. We deny it. We admit that it is more 
prominent, but we deny that we made it so. It was not we, but you, 
who discarded the old policy of the fathers. We resisted, and still 
resist, your innovation; and thence comes the greater prominence 
of the question. Would you have that question reduced to its former 
proportions? Go back to that old policy. What has been will be 
again, under the same conditions. If you would have the peace of 
the old times, readopt the precepts and policy of the old times. 

You charge that we stir up insurrections among your slaves. 
Wedenvit- and what is your proof ? Harper's Ferry! John Brown!! 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 659 

John Brown was no Republican; and you have failed to implicate a 
single Republican in his Harper's Ferry enterprise. If any member 
of our party is guilty in that matter, you know it, or you do not 
know it. If you do know it, you are inexcusable for not designating 
the man and proving the fact. If you do not know it, you are in- 
excusable for asserting it, and especially for persisting in the assertion 
after you have tried and failed to make the proof. You need not be 
told that persisting in a charge which one does not know to be true, 
is simply malicious slander. 

Some of you admit that no Republican designedly aided or 
encouraged the Harper's Ferry affair, but still insist that our doc- 
trines and declarations necessarily lead to such results. We do not 
believe it. We know we hold no doctrine, and make no declaration; 
which were not held to and made by "our fathers who framed the 
government under which we live." You never dealt fairly by us in 
relation to this affair. When it occurred, some important State 
elections were near at hand, and you were in evident glee with the 
belief that, by charging the blame upon us, you could get an advan- 
tage of us in those elections. The elections came, and your expecta- 
tions were not quite fulfilled. Every Republican man knew that, as 
to himself at least, your charge was a slander, and he was not much 
inclined by it to cast his vote in your favor. Republican doctrines 
and declarations are accompanied with a continual protest against 
any interference whatever with your slaves, or with you about your 
slaves. Surely, this does not encourage them to revolt. True, we 
do, in common with "our fathers who framed the government under 
which we live," declare our belief that slavery is wrong; but the 
slaves do not hear us declare even this. For anything we say or do, 
the slaves would scarcely know there is a Republican party. I 
believe they would not, in fact, generally know it but for your mis- 
representations of us in their hearing. In your political contests 
among yourselves, each faction charges the other with sympathy 
with Black Republicanism; and then, to give point to the charge, 
defines Black Republicanism to simply be insurrection, blood, and 
thunder among the slaves. 

Slave insurrections are no more common now than they were 
before the Republican party was organized. What induced the 
Southampton insurrection, twenty-eight years ago, in which at least 



66o AMERICAN PROSE 



three times as many lives were lost as at Harper's Ferry ? You can 
scarcely stretch your very elastic fancy to the conclusion that South- 
ampton was "got up by Black Republicanism." In the present 
state of things in the United States, I do not think a general, or even a 
very extensive, slave insurrection is possible. The indispensable con- 
cert of action cannot be attained. The slaves have no means of rapid 
communication; nor can incendiary freemen, black or white, supply 
it. The explosive materials are everywhere in parcels; but there 
neither are, nor can be supplied, the indispensable connecting 
trains. 

Much is said by Southern people about the affection of slaves 
for their masters and mistresses; and a part of it, at least, is true. A 
plot for an uprising could scarcely be devised and communicated to 
twenty individuals before some one of them, to save the life of a 
favorite master or mistress, would divulge it. This is the rule; and 
the slave revolution in Hayti was not an exception to it, but a case 
occurring under peculiar circumstances. The gunpowder plot of 
British history, though not connected with slaves, was more in point. 
In that case only about twenty were admitted to the secret; and 
yet one of them, in his anxiety to save a friend, betrayed the plot to 
that friend, and, by consequence, averted the calamity. Occasional 
poisonings from the kitchen, and open or stealthy assassinations in 
the field, and local revolts extending to a score or so, will continue to 
occur as the natural results of slavery; but no general insurrection 
of slaves, as I think, can happen in this country for a long time. 
Whoever much fears, or much hopes, for such an event, will be alike 
disappointed. 

In the language of Mr. Jefferson, uttered many years ago, "It 
is still in our power to direct the process of emancipation and de- 
portation peaceably, and in such slow degrees, as that the evil will 
wear off insensibly; and their places be, pari passu, filled up by free 
white laborers. If, on the contrary, it is left to force itself on, human 
nature must shudder at the prospect held up." 

Mr. Jefferson did not mean to say, nor do I, that the power of 
emancipation is in the Federal Government. He spoke of Virginia; 
and, as to the power of emancipation, I speak of the slaveholding 
States only. The Federal Government, however, as we insist, has 
the power of restraining the extension of the institution — the power 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 66 1 

to insure that a slave insurrection shall never occur on any American 
soil which is now free from slavery. 

John Brown's effort was peculiar. It was not a slave insurrec- 
tion. It was an attempt by white men to get up a revolt among slaves, 
in which the slaves refused to participate. In fact, it was so absurd 
that the slaves, with all their ignorance, saw plainly enough it could 
not succeed. That affair, in its philosophy, corresponds with the 
many attempts, related in history, at the assassination of kings and 
emperors. An enthusiast broods over the oppression of a people till 
he fancies himself commissioned by Heaven to liberate them. He 
ventures the attempt, which ends in little else than his own execution. 
Orsini's attempt on Louis Napoleon and John Brown's attempt at 
Harper's Ferry were, in their philosophy, precisely the same. The 
eagerness to cast blame on old England in the one case, and on New 
England in the other, does not disprove the sameness of the two 
things. 

And how much would it avail you, if you could, by the use of 
John Brown, Helper's Book, and the like, break up the Republican 
organization? Human action can be modified to some extent, but 
human nature cannot be changed. There is a judgment and a feeling 
against slavery in this nation, which cast at least a million and a 
half of votes. You cannot destroy that judgment and feeling — that 
sentiment — by breaking up the political organization which rallies 
around it. You can scarcely scatter and disperse an army which 
has been formed into order in the face of your heaviest fire; but if 
you could, how much would you gain by forcing the sentiment which 
created it out of the peaceful channel of the ballot-box into some 
other channel ? What would that other channel probably be ? Would 
the number of John Browns be lessened or enlarged by the operation ? 

But you will break up the Union rather than submit to a denial 
of your constitutional rights. 

That has a somewhat reckless sound; but it would be palliated, 
if not fully justified, were we proposing, by the mere force of num- 
bers, to deprive you of some right plainly written down in the Con- 
stitution. But we are proposing no such thing. 

When you make these declarations you have a specific and 
well-understood allusion to an assumed constitutional right of yours 
to take slaves into the Federal Territories, and to hold them there as 



662 AMERICAN PROSE 



property. But no such right is specifically written in the Consti- 
tution. That instrument is literally silent about any such right. 
We, on the contrary, deny that such a right has any existence in the 
Constitution, even by implication. 

Your purpose, then, plainly stated, is that you will destroy the 
government, unless you be allowed to construe and force the Con- 
stitution as you please, on all points in dispute between you and us. 
You will rule or ruin in all events. 

This, plainly stated, is your language. Perhaps you will say 
the Supreme Court has decided the disputed constitutional question 
in your favor. Not quite so. But waiving the lawyer's distinction 
between dictum and decision, the court has decided the question for 
you in a sort of way. The court has substantially said, it is your 
constitutional right to take slaves into the Federal Territories, and 
to hold them there as property. When I say the decision was made 
in a sort of way, I mean it was made in a divided court, by a bare 
majority of the judges, and they not quite agreeing with one another 
in the reasons for making it; that it is so made as that its avowed 
supporters disagree with one another about its meaning, and that 
it was mainly based upon a mistaken statement of fact — the state- 
ment in the opinion that " the right of property in a slave is distinctly 
and expressly affirmed in the Constitution." 

An inspection of the Constitution will show that the right of 
property in a slave is not "distinctly and expressly affirmed" in it. 
Bear in mind, the judges do not pledge their judicial opinion that 
such right is impliedly affirmed in the Constitution; but they pledge 
their veracity that it is "distinctly and expressly" affirmed there — 
"distinctly," that is, not mingled with anything else — "expressly," 
that is, in words meaning just that, without the aid of any inference, 
and susceptible of no other meaning. 

If they had only pledged their judicial opinion that such right is 
affirmed in the instrument by implication, it would be open to others 
to show that neither the word "slave" nor "slavery" is to be found 
in the Constitution, nor the word "property" even, in any connec- 
tion with language alluding to the things slave, or slavery; and that 
wherever in that instrument the slave is alluded to, he is called a 
"person"; and wherever his master's legal right in relation to him 
is alluded to, it is spoken of as "service or labor which may be due"— 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 663 

as a debt payable in service or labor. Also it would be open to show, 
by contemporaneous history, that this mode of alluding to slaves 
and slavery, instead of speaking of them, was employed on purpose 
to exclude from the Constitution the idea that there could be prop- 
erty in man. 

To show all this is easy and certain. 

When this obvious mistake of the judges shall be brought to 
their notice, is it not reasonable to expect that they will withdraw 
the mistaken statement, and reconsider the conclusion based upon it ? 

And then it is to be remembered that "our fathers who framed 
the government under which we live" — the men who made the 
Constitution — decided this same constitutional question in our favor 
long ago: decided it without division among themselves when making 
the decision; without division among themselves about the meaning 
of it after it was made, and, so far as any evidence is left, without 
basing it upon any mistaken statement of facts. 

Under all these circumstances, do you really feel yourselves jus- 
tified to break up this government unless such a court decision as 
yours is shall be at once submitted to as a conclusive and final rule 
of political action ? But you will not abide the election of a Repub- 
lican president! In that supposed event, you say, you will destroy 
the Union; and then, you say, the great crime of having destroyed 
it will be upon us! That is cool. A highwayman holds a pistol to 
my ear, and mutters through his teeth, "Stand and deliver, or I 
shall kill you, and then you will be a murderer!" 

To be sure, what the robber demanded of me — my money! — was 
my own; and I had a clear right to keep it; but it was no more my 
own than my vote is my own; and the threat of death to me, to ex- 
tort my money, and the threat of destruction to the Union, to extort 
my vote, can scarcely be distinguished in principle. 

A few words now to Republicans. It is exceedingly desirable 
that all parts of this great Confederacy shall be at peace, and in 
harmony one with another. Let us Republicans do our part to have 
it so. Even though much provoked, let us do nothing through pas- 
sion and ill temper. Even though the Southern people will not so 
much as listen to us, let us calmly consider their demands, and yield 
to them if, in our deliberate view of our duty, we possibly can. 
Judging by all they say and do, and by the subject and nature of 



664 AMERICAN PROSE 



their controversy with us, let us determine, if we can, what will 
satisfy them. 

Will they be satisfied if the Territories be unconditionally sur- 
rendered to them ? We know they will not. In all their present 
complaints against us, the Territories are scarcely mentioned. In- 
vasions and insurrections are the rage now. Will it satisfy them if, 
in the future, we have nothing to do with invasions and insurrections ? 
We know it will not. We so know, because we know we never 
had anything to do with invasions and insurrections; and vet 
this total abstaining does not exempt us from the charge and , le 
denunciation. 

The question recurs, What will satisfy them ? Simply this : w 
must not only let them alone, but we must somehow convince the 
that we do let them alone. This, we know by experience, is no ea. 
task. We have been so trying to convince them from the very b. 
ginning of our organization, but with no success. In all our plat 
forms and speeches we have constantly protested our purpose t< 
let them alone; but this has had no tendency to convince them 
Alike unavailing to convince them is the fact that they have neve? 
detected a man of us in any attempt to disturb them. 

These natural and apparently adequate means all failing, whal 
will convince them? This, and this only: cease to call slavery 
wrong, and join them in calling it right. And this must be done 
thoroughly — done in acts as well as in words. Silence will not be 
tolerated — we must place ourselves avowedly with them. Senator 
Douglas's new sedition law must be enacted and enforced, suppres- 
sing all declarations that slavery is wrong, whether made in politics, 
in presses, in pulpits, or in private. We must arrest and return 
their fugitive slaves with greedy pleasure. We must pull down our 
free-State constitutions. The whole atmosphere must be disinfected 
from all taint of opposition to slavery, before they will cease to believe 
that all their troubles proceed from us. 

I am quite aware they do not state their case precisely in this 
way. Most of them would probably say to us, "Let us alone; do 
nothing to us, and say what you please about slavery." But we do 
let them alone, — have never disturbed them, — so that, after all, it 
is what we say which dissatisfies them. They will continue to accuse 
us of doing, until we cease saying. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 665 

I am also aware they have not as yet in terms demanded the 
overthrow of our free-State constitutions. Yet those constitutions 
declare the wrong of slavery with more solemn emphasis than do all 
other sayings against it; and when all these other sayings shall have 
been silenced, the overthrow of these constitutions will be demanded, 
and nothing be left to resist the demand. It is nothing to the con- 
trary that they do not demand the whole of this just now. Demand- 
ing what they do, and for the reason they do, they can voluntarily 
stop nowhere short of this consummation. Holding, as they do, that 
skfydry is morally right and socially elevating, they cannot cease to 
^ aand a full national recognition of it as a legal right and a social 
ossing. 

•<xt Nor can we justifiably withhold this on any ground save our 
eviction that slavery is wrong. If slavery is right, all words, acts, 
jws, and constitutions against it are themselves wrong, and should 
^e silenced and swept away. If it is right, we cannot justly object 
.0 its nationality — its universality; if it is wrong, they cannot 
ustly insist upon its extension — its enlargement. All they ask we 
^ould readily grant, if we thought slavery right; all we ask they 
ould as readily grant, if they thought it wrong. Their think- 
ing it right and our thinking it wrong is the precise fact upon 
which depends the whole controversy. Thinking it right, as they 
do, they are not to blame for desiring its full recognition as being 
right; but thinking it wrong, as we do, can we yield to them? 
Can we cast our votes with their view, and against our own ? 
In view of our moral, social, and political responsibilities, can we do 
this? 

Wrong as we think slavery is, we can yet afford to let it alone 
where it is, because that much is due to the necessity arising from 
its actual presence in the nation; but can we, while our votes will 
prevent it, allow it to spread into the national Territories, and to 
overrun us here in these free States? If our sense of duty forbids 
this, then let us stand by our duty fearlessly and effectively. Let 
us be diverted by none of those sophistical contrivances wherewith 
we are so industriously plied and belabored — contrivances such as 
groping for some middle ground between the right and the wrong: 
vain as the search for a man who should be neither a living man nor 
a dead man; such as a policy of "don't, care" on a question about 



666 AMERICAN PROSE 



which all true men do care; such as Union appeals beseeching true 
Union men to yield to Disunionists, reversing the divine ride, and 
calling, not the sinners, but the righteous to repentance; such as 
invocations to Washington, imploring men to unsay what Washington 
said and undo what Washington did. 

Neither let us be slandered from our duty by false accusations 
against us, nor frightened from it by menaces of destruction to the 
government, nor of dungeons to ourselves. Let us have faith that 
right makes might, and in that faith let us to the end dare to do our 
duty as we understand it. 

ADDRESS AT THE DEDICATION OF THE GETTYSBURG 
NATIONAL CEMETERY 

Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this 
continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the 
proposition that all men are created equal. 

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that 
nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. 
We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to 
dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who 
here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether 
fitting and proper that we should do this. 

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate — we cannot consecrate 
— we cannot hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, 
who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power 
to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember 
what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. 
It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the 
unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so 
nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the 
great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we 
take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the 
last full measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that 
these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under 
God, shall have a new birth of freedom; and that government of 
the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the 
earth. 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 667 

SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS 

Fellow-countrymen: At this second appearing to take the oath of 
the presidential office, there is less occasion for an extended address 
than there was at the first. Then a statement, somewhat in detail, 
of a course to be pursued, seemed fitting and proper. Now, at the 
expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been 
constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest 
which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the 
nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our 
arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the 
public as to myself; and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and 
encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in 
regard to it is ventured. 

On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago, all thoughts 
were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All dreaded it — all 
sought to avert it. While the inaugural address was being delivered 
from this place, devoted altogether to saving the Union without war, 
insurgent agents were in the city seeking to destroy it without war — 
seeking to dissolve the Union, and divide effects, by negotiation. 
Both parties deprecated war; but one of them would make war 
rather than let the nation survive; and the other would accept war 
rather than let it perish. And the war came. 

One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not 
distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the Southern 
part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. 
All knew that this interest was, somehow, the cause of the war. To 
strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for 
which the insurgents would rend the Union, even by 'war; while the 
government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the terri- 
torial enlargement of it. 

Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration 
which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause 
of the conflict might cease with, or even before, the conflict itself 
should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less 
fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible, and pray 
to the same God; and each invokes his aid against the other. It 
may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's 
assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's 



668 AMERICAN PROSE 



faces; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers 
of both could not be answered — that of neither has been answered 
fully. 

The Almighty has his own purposes. "Woe unto the world 
because of offenses! for it must needs be that offenses come; but woe 
to that man by whom the offense cometh." If we shall suppose that 
American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of 
God, must needs come, but which, having continued through his 
appointed time, he now wills to remove, and that he gives to both 
North and South this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom 
the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those 
divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe 
to him ? Fondly do we hope — fervently do we pray — that this mighty 
scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it 
continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred 
and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop 
of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with 
the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be 
said, "The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether." 

With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in 
the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish 
the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him 
who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan — 
to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace 
among ourselves, and with all nations. 



NOTES 



NOTES 

JOHN SMITH 

(i) A True Relation. The text is from the 1608 edition. A colony had 
just been established at Jamestown, Virginia, and Smith was exploring the sur- 
rounding country. % ye river: the Chickahominy, a tributary of the James. 
1f osey = oozy. ^ This occasioned . ... the barge: the sentence is left incom- 
plete. 1f then = than. 

(2) lacke = lake. \ at home: Jamestown, where there had been quarrels and 
jealousies. % adventurers in england: the "Merchant Adventurers" who were 
financing the colony. % boughts= bends, ^prevented = anticipated. 

(3) I perceived .... woods: it is clear from another work by Smith 
referring to the same scene, says Arber, that the sentence should have been finished 
by some such words as, "that they were a party hunting deer." If points =l&ces. 

(4) A Map of Virginia. The text is from the 161 2 edition. \cautelous = 
cautious, wary. If artificially = artfully. 

(5) chape: the tip of a scabbard. 1f springs = shoots. 

(6) presently = quickly. If weares= weirs, dams. If Targets = targes, shields. 

(7) trucking = barter. If bowing = burning ? 

WTLLIAM BRADFORD 

(7) Of Pllmoth Plantation. From chapter 10 of Book I; and from the 
entries under the years 1620 and 1628 in Book II. The text is from the 1898 edi- 
tion, printed from the original manuscript. If ye = the. If sprea = spray. 

(8) y/ = that. If 0/= off. 1f laped = lapped, wrapped. 

(9) randevoue — rendezvous. \ charged = loaded. *\mr.= master. 

(11) bear up: go to leeward. If Northerne parts of Virginia: i.e., what is now 
called New England. 

(14) adventure: investment. T Furnejells Inne: lawyers' quarters in London. 

(15) powering = pouring. % Mounte-Dagon: Dagon was the god of the 
Philistines. 

THOMAS MORTON 

(16) New English Canaan. From Book III, chapter 14. The text is 
from the 1637 edition. 1f solemne = festive, ^festivall day of Philip and Jacob: 
May 1. 1fowe = on. \ seperatists: the Pilgrims were so called because they 
had separated from the English Church. \ gammedes: Ganymede, the gods' 
cup-bearer. 

(17) hers = here's. Tf Irish stuff nor Scotch: i.e., whiskey. 1f lfw//=mint; 
cf. Matt. 23:23. 

671 



672 AMERICAN PROSE 



JOHN WINTHROP 

(17) A Puritan to His Wife. The text is from the Appendix to Vol. I of 
Winthrop's History of New England, the 1825 edition, printed from the original 
manuscript. % Charleton = Charlestown. 

(19) The History of New England. The text is from the 1825 edition. 
If 12 mo. 3: twelfth month, third day. 

(20) lectures: mid-week sermons. If general court: the legislature. % con- 
vented — called before a court. If a schoolmaster: Eaton was really the head of 
Harvard College, then no more than a school. If gate = got. 

(21) leave = leave off, stop. 

(22) marks: an English mark was 13 shillings, 4 pence. 

(23) tows = bundle. If curiously = carefully. 

(24) Gorton: Samuel Gorton. Winthrop adds later: "The court finding that 
Gorton and his company did harm in the towns where they were confined, and not 
knowing what to do with them, at length agreed to set them at liberty [in 1644], 
and gave them 14 days to depart out of our jurisdiction in all parts, and no more 
to come into it upon pain of death. This censure was thought too light and 
favourable." 

(25) parls= abilities. 

(28) grains =prongs. If conversation =vja.y of life. \ the last day: i.e., of the 
week; the Puritan Sunday began on Saturday, at sunset. 



THOMAS SHEPARD 

(29) The Sincere Convert. From chapter 5. The text is from the 1655 
edition. 

(32) a proof: a passage of Scripture proving the doctrine of the sermon. 

(33) Precisians: too precise persons, especially in religion and morals; a 
term often used of the Puritans. 



ROGER WILLIAMS 

(33) The Bloudy Tenent of Persecution for Cause of Conscience. 
The text is from the first edition, 1644. 

(34) blood of the Soules crying for vengeance under the Altar: cf. Rev. 6 : 9, 10. 
If John Cotton: the leading Congregationalist clergyman of Massachusetts. 1f The 
Aforesaid Arguments: arguments in a letter by Williams to Cotton. 

(36) Righteousnes and Peace shall kisse each other: cf. Ps. 85:10. 

(37) not pro Domina .... Veritate: "not for Mistress Queen but for 
Mistress Truth." 

(38) Absaloms: see II Sam. 16:22. 

(41) admired = wondered at. \Gardiners, Boners: Stephen Gardiner and 
Edmund Bonner, English bishops, took a prominent part in the persecution of 
Protestants under Queen Mary (1553-58). If John Bus: a Bohemian religious 
reformer, who was burned at the stake for heresy in 141 5. 



NOTES 673 

NATHANIEL WARD 

(42) The Simple Cobler of Aggawam. The text is from the first edition, 
1647. 

(43) Beelzebub can Jly-blow: " Beelzebub " means " the god of flies." 1f pre- 
varicate = turn aside from the path. If labor are varicibus: "be troubled with 
varicose veins." 1 Paracelsian: Paracelsus (1403-1541) has been called "the 
father of chemistry"; cf. the end of the sentence. If well complexioned for honesty: 
having an honest look. If pud d er = stir about. 1f ponderous = given to pondering, 
thoughtful. % recollect = compose. If Colluvies: "impure conflux," "vile medley." 

(44) sedulity = sedulousness. 1f Familists: a sect calling itself the Family of 
Love. If Antinomians: those who held that Christians were released from the 
moral law. 1f Anabaptists: Baptists. If Professors: professors of religion. 
If distate — remove from its state or position. 

(45) Alchymized coines: counterfeits made of baser metals. If Ignis pro- 
bations: "fire of proof," i.e., fire used as a means of testing. If congregare .... 
heterogenia: "bring together the like, and separate the unlike." 1f Leopard-like: 
spotted, not uniform. If traverse = cross, thwart. ^ Sconce— fort. \Jannes and 
Jambres: Egyptian magicians who withstood Moses; see II Tim. 3:8. If Augus- 
tines: Augustine (354-430) was the greatest of the Latin Church Fathers. 

(46) Nullum .... errandi: "There is no greater evil than liberty to 
err." If quick = alive. If Conversationally oi life. 1f Redendem .... prohibit: 
" Laughingly to tell the truth, what forbids ?" " Redendem " should be " ridentem " ; 
"prohibit" should be "prohibet." ^ bravery = fine dress. ^ bully mong=bulli- 
mong, a mixture of various kinds of grain; used figuratively here. If drossock = 
drassock, a drab, an untidy woman. 

(47) nugiperous = trifles-bearing. If nudiustertian=ma.de three days ago. 
1fH«=ken. If transclouts: transforms by the cloths they wear. If gant = gz.nnet, 
gander. 1f bar-geese: a kind of wild geese. If shotten: a term used of fish that 
have emitted their spawn. If drailes = trailing head-dress. 1f Kits: small fiddles. 
If pegma's: movable machines used in old pageants. If gut-foundred: a reference 
to the fact that silk comes from the entrails of caterpillars. 

(48) tripe-wifted: an allusion to the same thing explained in the preceding 
note, " tripe" being formerly used for " entrails"; "wifted" is a mistake for " wifed," 
the reading of a later edition. 1f sadly = seriously. If convenient = fitting. ^Mar- 
mosets: small monkeys. If futilous = futile, trifling. \ pettitoes: pigs' toes, \per- 
quisquilian = trifling, worthless. \ mistery = trade, f The joyning of the Red-Rose 
with the White: an allusion to the Wars of the Roses, in the fifteenth century, when 
the houses of York and Lancaster contended with each other for the throne of 
England. If Damask: the word means a rose color, and the reference here is to 
the blood shed in the war. 1f Flore de lices: fleurs-de-lis. 1f overlurcas'd = covered 
over with turquoises. If preferre= present. If Essex Ladies: "All the Counties 
and shires of England have had wars in them since the Conquest, but Essex, which 
is onely free, and should be thankfull." — Marginal note in the original edition. 
If Chore = choir. If Le Roy le veult: "The king wills it." 1f Les Seigneurs onl 
Assentus: "The lords have assented." 



674 AMERICAN PROSE 



(49) renite = resist. 1f president = protector. 1f surguedryes: for "surque- 
dryes"= arrogances, ^provoking: "calling forth" punishment. \prodromies = 
forerunners. If judgement = doom, condemnation. If pannage: the food of swine in 
the woods, as acorns. % the present dolefull estate of the Realme: the war between 
the king's party and the Puritans was then raging. 

JOHN MASON 

(50) A Brief History of the Pequot War. The text is from the 1736 
edition, the first complete one. The Pequot Indians, the most warlike in southern 
New England, became so great a danger to the colonists in Connecticut that a 
concerted effort was made to subdue them. Captain John Mason, who had been a 
soldier in the Netherlands, at the head of ninety men and aided by Captain John 
Underhill, of Boston, attacked the Pequot forts on the Mystic River in 1637 and 
slew some six hundred of the savages; the blow crippled their power, and they 
kept the peace for forty years. If with about five hundred Indians: Narragansetts 
and Mohegans, timid foes of the Pequots. 1f^4/to = halt. If Onkos: chief of the 
Mohegans, who had seceded from the Pequots; the name is more common in the 
form "Uncas." 

(51) Sassacous: Sassacus, the head chief of the Pequots. If seeing our Pin- 
naces sail by: the expedition had started by boat from Saybrook the week before ; 
instead of putting into the mouth of the Pequot, or Thames, as the Indians had 
expected, it sailed to Narragansett Bay, landed, and marched back to the Pequot 
country, by this ruse taking the Indians unawares. 

(52) Champion = champaign; flat and open. 

(54) making them as a fiery Oven: Ps. 21:9. 1f Thus were the Stout Hearted 
spoiled, etc.: cf. Ps. 76:5, "The stouthearted are spoiled, they have slept 
their sleep: and none of the men of might have found their hands." 1f Thus did 
the Lord judge, etc.: cf. Ps. 110:6, "He shall judge among the heathen, he shall 
fill the places with the dead bodies." 

MARY ROWLANDSON 

(54) A Narrative of the Captivity. The text is from a photographic 
facsimile of the second American edition, 1682. Mrs. Rowlandson was the wife 
of the minister in Lancaster, Massachusetts; the attack upon the town was a part 
of the concerted rising of the Indians of New England which is called King Philip's 
War, from the leader, King Philip, the shrewd and powerful chief of the 
Wampanoags. 

(56) Come, behold the works of the Lord, etc.: Ps. 46 : 8. 

(57) whither = whether. If Praying Indians: the common name then for 
Indians who had professed Christianity. 

(58) my master: the Indian to whose keeping she had been especially com- 
mitted. \Nux: Indian for "yes." 

(59) Redemption: her ransom. If Sannup: Indian for "husband." If pres- 
ently— a.t once. 

(60) Philip: King Philip. 1f you shal be Mistress: i.e., reunited with her 
husband. 



NOTES 675 

(62) the Wine of astonishment: Ps. 60 : 3 . ^ It is good for me, etc. : Ps. 1 1 9 : 7 1 . 
If Vanity of vanities, and vexation of spirit: Eccles. 1 : 1, 14. 

INCREASE MATHER 

(63) An Essay for the Recording of Illustrious Providences. From 
chapters 5 and 8. The text is from the 1684 edition. 

(64) Saveall: a small pan fitted to the socket of a candle-stick, by means of 
which the candle may be burnt to the end. 

(65) Peel: a spade-like implement for taking loaves from an oven, etc. 
If Beesom= broom. 

(66) Piggin: a small wooden pail. 

(67) Proba: "proof." If Responsum .... indicium: "Reply to the high 
council of Holland, that floating on the surface is no sign of witches." 

(68) Gadarens Hoggs: see Mark 5. 

(70) Nihil .... intuentium: "Nothing which is done by magic can in 
the water deceive the sight of spectators." ■ 

COTTON MATHER 

(71) The Wonders of the Invisible World. The text is from the 1693 
edition. % Oyer and Terminer: "To hear and determine." 

(74) years: apparently an error for "months." 

(75) presently = immediately. 

(76) Poppets: it was believed that witches by sticking pins into such figures, 
tormented the persons whom the puppets represented. If Entertained = occupied, 
busied. 

(77) Magnalia Christi Americana. The title means "The Great Things 
of Christ in America." The subtitle is The Ecclesiastical History of New England. 
From Books II, HI, and VI. The text is from the 1702 edition. 1f Captain 
Phips: Sir William Phipps was a native of Maine; he served as governor of 
Massachusetts from 1692 to 1694. His second search for the treasure was made 
in 1687, and resulted in the recovery of about $1,500,000. \Incertum quo Fata 
ferant: "Uncertain whither the Fates may bear." If White-Hall: a royal palace in 
London. 1f Experiment = testing by experience. 

(78) Port de la Plata: the mouth of La Plata River, South America. 1f Busking 
= cruising. 1f as fair a Triumph as Caligula's: the Roman emperor Caligula, on 
his return from Gaul with much plunder, in 39 a.d., received an ovation, or minor 
triumph. 

(80) Thomas Hooker: he was a graduate and fellow of Cambridge Univer- 
sity, and a clergyman in the English Church; in 1630 he was summoned before the 
Court of High Commission because of his Puritanism, and fled to Holland; he 
returned to England in 1633 on the way to America. 1f Athanasius: one of the 
Church Fathers, living in the fourth century. If Luther and Melanclhon: these 
leaders of the Reformation were of different types, the former being a man of great 
natural robustness, the latter a scholar of keen intellectuality. If New-Town: 
Cambridge. If Sitna .... Esek .... Reho-both: the words mean, respec- 
tively, "Contention," "Hatred," and "Room"; see Gen. 26:19-22. 



676 AMERICAN PROSE 



(81) another Colony: Hartford. 

(82) Three United Colonies: Boston, Plymouth, Salem. If willing = wishing. 

(83) Dog . . . . R: "R" was called the "Dog's Letter" because it was 
supposed to be the chief sound in a dog's growl. If Sesquipedalia Verba: "words a 
foot and a half long." If pregnant = full of ability. H witty = intelligent. If towardly 
=not fro ward, docile. \ Ingenuity = ingenuousness, frankness. 

(84) Sadducism: skepticism, especially disbelief in spirits; cf. Acts 23:8, 
"For the Sadducees say there is no resurrection, neither angel, nor spirit." 

(85) Ann Cole: at the Salem witch trials she testified to being tormented 
by the witches, particularly when she sought refuge in the Rock, i.e., Christ. 

(87) Conversation =way of life. % convenient = fitting. H entertain = engage 
the attention of. 

(88) M ischief= injury. 

SAMUEL SEWALL 

(89) The Diary. The text is that published by the Massachusetts Historical 
Society, from the original manuscript. 

(90) Mane: "morning." If Lecture-Day: the day of the mid-week sermon. 
If Cross to be put into the Colours: on account of Puritan scruples the cross of the 
British flag had been left out of the flags of the colony's military companies, as 
savoring of Popery; see Hawthorne's "Endicott and the Red Cross" in Twice- 
Told Tales. 

(92) were executed at Salem: the crime alleged was witchcraft. H press'd to 
death for standing mute: Giles Corey, eighty-one years old, was indicted at Salem 
for witchcraft; he refused to plead either guilty or not guilty, believing that if he 
did so and were convicted his will would be invalidated; for the benefit of his 
heirs he therefore incurred the horrible penalty of the English law for " standing 
mute" in the face of an indictment. 1f loseph: this sinful son was then four 
years old. If Adam's carriage: Gen. 3: 10, "I heard thy voice in the garden, and I 
was afraid, .... and I hid myself." 1f Cousin-Germans: first cousins. 

(93) the little posthumous: a still-born child. If the President: Increase 
Mather, President of Harvard College, f Copy of the Bill I put up on the Fast day: 
the reaction in the colony from the state of mind that led to the execution of sup- 
posed witches at Salem, in 1692, was quick and widespread, and in 1697 a day of 
prayer and fasting (January 14) was appointed as an expression of repentance for 
any wrong that had been done "in the late tragedy." Sewall had been one of the 
judges at the trials. If Oyer and Terminer: "To hear and determine." 

(94) Ten Companies, 8, Muddy River and Sconce: eight companies belonged 
to Boston, one to Muddy River, and one to the sconce, or fort, near Boston. 

(95) pleaded much for Negros: Sewall was one of the earliest opponents of 
slavery at a time when slaves were not uncommon in New England. 1f Psal. 27.10: 
"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up." 
\Feria Sexta: "Sixth Day." If told = counted. \ Capt. Quelch and six others: 
they were pirates. 

(96) Feria septima: "seventh Day." 



NOTES 677 

(97) 8r.: October. 1f Madam Winthrop' s: Katherine Winthrop, twice a 
widow; she was now fifty-six years old. \ my loving wife died so soon: Sewall's 
second wife had died four months before, on May 26. He was now in his sixty- 
ninth year. If convenient = fitting, f Castle: the fort near Boston. 

(98) Mr. Belcher's Cake and Ginger-Bread: the thrifty wooer had been given 
these delicacies on leaving Mr. Belcher's house the day before. 

(99) a first and second Vagary: the first "vagary" was the widow Denison, 
whom he had courted soon after the death of his first wife, in 17 17, although Madam 
Winthrop had already been "commended" to him by her relatives; the second 
"vagary" was his second wife. 

(100) Stone-House: the prison. U Hannah 3 oranges with her Duty: i.e., a 
gift, with respects, from his daughter Hannah. 

(102) Jehovah jireh: "The Lord will provide." ^ South: the south end of 
the town; cf. text, 14 lines below. 

(103) Isaac Moses's Writing: Moses was an Indian. 

(104) fond = foolish. 

SARAH K. KNIGHT 

(103) The Journal. The text is from the 1825 edition, printed from the 
original manuscript. ^Billings: an error for "Belcher." *& Pieces of eight : Span- 
ish piasters, coins of about the value of the American dollar; so called because 
worth eight reals. 

(106) pss. =piece. If eminent: error for "imminent." \Parismus and the 
Knight of the Oracle: romances by Emanuel Forde, of the Elizabethan Age. \ ver- 
sall: vulgar for "universal," meaning "whole"; cf. the Nurse's "versal world" 
in Romeo and Juliet, Act II, scene iv, 1. 219. 

(107) /«w£=pipe? 1f Rung = having a ring through the snout. ^ Lento = 
lean-to; an addition to the main building, with a single-pitch roof. If Sad-colourd = 
dark-colored. If the Ordnary: the charge for the dinner; the regular, ordinary 
meal was so called, in distinction from one specially ordered. 

(108) nor so much as think on holt's wife: "But his [Lot's] wife looked back." 
— Gen. 19:26. f Stage — resting-place. 

(109) ye Children in the wood: an allusion to the ballad of the two children 
who were left to die in the wood. \ Left.= lieutenant; the spelling represents the 
old pronunciation, still used in England. 1f Insigne = ensign. 

(no) Sophisler: another allusion to the landlord's name being "Devil," 
with a reference to the specious reasoning by which the Devil deludes men. 
(111) shores = props. If muscheelo's = musta.chios. 

WILLIAM BYRD 

(113) History of the Dividing Line. The text of this selection and the 
next follows, by permission, that of the 1901 edition of Byrd's works, edited by 
J. S. Bassett, which is printed from the original manuscript. Byrd was one of the 
commissioners appointed to determine the boundary line between Virginia and 
North Carolina. The line ran through the Great Dismal Swamp, which the 



678 AMERICAN PROSE 



surveyors entered on the east , while the commissioners went around the southern 
end and awaited them on the western edge. 

(117) Bantam: a seaport in Java. 

(119) Faustina .... Farinelli: popular singers of the time. 

(119) A Progress to the Mines. Byrd, who owned much land, was inter- 
ested in the development of the colony's natural resources, and visited several 
iron mines in the year 1732 . 

(120) Exchange: a reference to the noisy and sometimes rash way of doing 
business in public exchanges, like the modern Wal J Street. \ the 16000: the legal 
salary for a clergyman in Virginia was 16,000 pounds of tobacco, which was much 
used for currency. If Goochland: one of the counties in Virginia. 

(121) Smart = elegantly dressed. 

JONATHAN EDWARDS 

(122) The Sweet Glory of God. Part of a manuscript found among 
Edwards' papers. The text is from Samuel Hopkins' Life of Jonathan Edwards 
(1765), where it is printed from the original. 

(124) Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. A part of the last division 
of the sermon, called "Application" or "Use." The text is from the 1745 edition, 

(128) Enquiry into the Freedom of the Will. From Part II, section 6. 
The text is from the 1754 edition. 

JOHN WOOLMAN 

(i33) The Journal. From chapters 2, 8, and 12. The text is from the 
1774 edition. If this journey: a journey through Pennsylvania, Maryland, Vir- 
ginia, and North Carolina, in 1746. 

J. HECTOR ST. JOHN CREVECCEUR 

(138) Letters from an American Farmer. The text is from Lewisohn's 
reprint (1904) of the 1782 edition. 

(139) eastern provinces: New England. 

(140) other governments: i.e., other American Colonies. 

(141) the whole were banished: 3,000 Acadians were deported by the British 
in 1755, for supposed disloyalty. % Ubi panis ibi patria: "Where one's bread is, 
there is one's fatherland." 

(145) track = tract. 

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 

(148) The Autobiography. The text is from the 1817 edition, by W. T. 
Franklin, Franklin's grandson and literary executor, who says that the work is 
" printed literally from the original autograph." If dying = dyeing. If emmets = ants. 

(151) chapmen's books: books containing songs, ballads, and other popular 
matter, sold by chapmen, or peddlers. 

( I 55) transformed: error for "transferred." % Mr. Whitefield: George 
Whitefield (1714-70), one of the founders of the Methodist Church and a very 
eloquent preacher; he visited America in 1738, and several times thereafter. 



NOTES 679 

(156) pistoles: the pistole was worth about $4.00. 

(158) The Way to Wealth. The text is that of Poor Richard's Almanac 
for 1758. 

(162) felix quern faciunt aliena pericula cautum: "happy he whom the perils 
of others make cautious." 

(164) Goa/=gaol, jail. 

(165) the Stone that will turn all your lead into Gold: in the Middle Ages many 
believed in the existence of a "philosopher's stone," which could turn the baser 
metals into gold. 

(166) The Ephemera. The text is from Jared Sparks's edition of Franklin's 
works, in 1836-40, printed from the original manuscripts and first editions. The 
essay was written in its present form in 1778, when Franklin was the American 
ambassador at the court of France; but in a cruder form it had appeared in The 
Pennsylvania Gazette, December 4, 1735, of which Franklin was then editor and 
publisher. 11 Moulin Joly: a small island in the Seine, part of the country-seat of 
another of Franklin's friends. If ephemera: the word is derived from two Greek 
words meaning "over" and "day." 1f disputing warmly on the merit of two foreign 
musicians: "At the time when the letter was written, all conversations at Paris 
were filled with disputes about the music of Gluck and Picini, a German and Italian 
musician." — Franklin, in a letter of June 17, 1780. 1f cousin: "gnat." \moscheto: 
"mosquito." 

(167) a tune: "She [Madame Brillon] has, among other elegant accomplish- 
ments, that of an excellent musician; and, with her daughters, who sing prettily, 
and some friends who play, she kindly entertains me and my grandson with little 
concerts, a cup of tea, and a game of chess." — Franklin, in a letter of June 17, 1780. 
\ Brillante: a play upon the name of Madame Brillon. 

(168) Dialogue between Franklin and the Gout. The text is from 
Sparks's edition. Franklin was afflicted with gout at this period of his life. 

(169) Passy, Auteuil, Montmartre: communes near Paris, which have since 
been included in the city. 

(170) your fair friend at Auteuil: Madam Helvetius, widow of a philosopher 
and man of letters, and herself the social center of a brilliant literary circle. 

(171) grove of Boulogne: the famous Bois de Boulogne, near Paris; Passy, 
Franklin' s residence, bordered upon it. 1f the garden de la Muette: just outside the Bois. 

(173) Letters. The text is from Sparks's edition. 

(174) louis d'ors: a louis was worth about $5.00. 

(175) your father: Cotton Mather. 

JOHN DICKINSON 

(176) Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania. The text is from the 
1768 edition. 

(177) "may touch some wheel": Pope's Essay on Man, Epistle 1, 1. 59, "Touches 
some wheel." 

(179) Mr. Hampden's ship money cause: when Charles I tried to revive an old 
ship-tax, without consent of Parliament, John Hampden, a leader in the popular 
party, refused to pay his tax and brought the case into court in 1637-38. 



68o AMERICAN PROSE 



SAMUEL SEABURY 

(180) Free Thoughts on the Proceedings of the Continental Congress. 
The text is from the 1774 edition. The Congress referred to was that which met in 
Philadelphia, September 5, 1774, and consisted of delegates from all the colonies 
except Georgia. One of its chief measures was the adoption of an agreement, 
binding upon all the colonists, to stop all trade with Great Britain after a certain 
date, and it arranged for the appointment of local committees to enforce the agree- 
ment. The author of Free Thoughts, who pretends to be a farmer, although in all 
probability he was Samuel Seabury, an Episcopalian clergyman, addresses himself 
to the farmers of New York State, showing the loss this agreement will cause them. 
If your seed: the context shows that the reference is to flax-seed. 

(181) the Irish: they imported much flax-seed from America, to grow the 
flax needed in making the famous Irish linen. If oil-mills: for making linseed oil. 

FRANCIS HOPKINSON 

(183) A Pretty Story. The text is from the 1774 edition. % a certain 
Nobleman: the king of Great Britain. If wconomy: management of affairs. 

(184) Marriage Articles: agreements at various times between king and 
Parliament, particularly that taxes should not be imposed without the consent 
of Parliament, ff his Wife: Parliament. % at the End of every seven Years: by the 
Septennial Act of 17 16 a new Parliament must be chosen at least as often as every 
seven years. \ until his brethren had first declared him worthy of such Punishment: 
trial by jury. If The Great Paper: Magna Charta, granted by King John in 1215. 

(185) wild uncultivated Country: British North America, ^f wild Beasts: 
Indians. 

(186) a Bond: the charter of each colony. ^ send to his Shop only: trade laws 
early established monopolies for the mother-country in the trade of the colonists. 

(187) JfagMa»«wzYy=great-mindedness. 1f a new Wife, etc. : these wives were 
the colonial legislatures. If some of their Neighbours: the French in Canada, and 
the Spanish in Florida. If several of his Servants: British soldiers. 

(188) should not be permitted to have amongst them any Shears, etc.: restrictions 
on colonial industries were imposed by Parliament early in the eighteenth century. 
1f a certain Stipend for every Barrel of Cyder: duties upon imported wine and rum. 
If the most lazy and useless of his Servants: British troops quartered in America. 

(189) supplied with Bread and Butter: after the French and Indian War, an 
act of Parliament directed that British troops in the colonies should be supplied 
with certain provisions; the legislature of New York refused to conform to the law 
in some particulars, and in 1767 Parliament suspended the legislature. Cf. Dick- 
inson's Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania, p. 177. 1f his Steward: the prime 
minister and other members of the cabinet. If marked with a certain Mark: the 
famous Stamp Act of 1765 required that all legal instruments should bear gov- 
ernment stamps, which must be bought of officials appointed by the British 
government. 

(190) They met together: the so-called Stamp Act Congress, attended by dele- 
gates from many of the colonies, met in New York in October, 1765, and sent a 
petition to the king against the act, which was repealed the next year. 



NOTES 68 1 

(191) Immortal: it is a maxim of British law that the king, i.e., the kingship, 
lan never die. If incapable of Error: it is another British maxim that the king can 
io no wrong. 

(192) pay a certain Stipend upon particular Goods: in 1767 Parliament laid 
duties upon tea, glass, and some other articles imported into the colonies. If a 
solemn Engagement: the colonists entered into agreements not to import anything 
from Great Britain until these duties were removed. 

(193) Water Gruel: tea. If certain Men on the old Farm: the East India 
Company. 

(194) Jack: Massachusetts. If stove to Pieces the Casks of Gruel: at the 
"Boston Tea Party," in 1773, citizens disguised as Indians threw into the harbor 
the contents of three hundred and forty-two chests of tea. If Billingsgate: the 
coarse language of the fishwives at Billingsgate, the center of the fish trade in 
London, became proverbial. 

(195) Padlock .... upon Jack's great gate: the Boston Port Bill, passed 
by Parliament in March, 1774, closed the port of Boston. If dragged to the Gallows 
at the Mansion House: in April, 1774, Parliament provided that persons in Massa- 
chusetts charged with treason should be taken to England for trial. If an Overseer 
to hector and domineer: General Gage, head of the British army in America, was 
made governor of Massachusetts. 

(196) attended the Overseer in the great Parlour: when Gage arrived in Boston, 
the magistrates and other dignitaries received him with due honor and gave him a 
public dinner; but he soon made it clear that he would execute the new laws rigor- 
ously. If Bounty was handed to Jack over the Garden Wall: food, clothing, and 
money were sent to Boston, overland, from the other colonies. 1f an Agreement not 
to deal in their Father's Shop: a non-importation agreement was signed by the 
members of the Massachusetts legislature. 

(197) a thundering Prohibition: Gage issued a proclamation, denouncing the 
agreement as seditious, ordering magistrates to arrest all signers of it, and for- 
bidding secret or public meetings. If a Pope's Bull: an edict by the Pope is called 
a "bull," from the Latin "bulla," seal. If Ccetera desunt: "The rest is lacking." 
The story necessarily stopped at this point, for it had been brought down almost 
to the moment of publication. It will be noticed that the number of stars used to 
indicate the breaking off is thirteen, one for each colony. 

PATRICK HENRY 

(197) Speech in the Virginia Convention of Delegates. The text is 
from Wirt's life of Henry, the 1818 edition, with change from the third person to 
the first where necessary. The speech was delivered on March 28, 1775. 1f listen 
to the song of that syren, till she transforms us into beasts: the orator has confused, 
or combined, the myth of the sirens, who lured men to death, and that of Circe, 
who by her magic potion changed men into beasts. 

(198) having eyes, see not, etc.: cf. Ps. 115:5, 6. If betrayed with a kiss: cf. 
Luke 22:48, "But Jesus said unto him, Judas, betrayest thou the Son of man with 
a kiss?" 



682 AMERICAN PROSE 



(199) election = choice, alternative. *H Their clanking may be heard on the 
plains of Boston: an allusion to the harsh measures recently taken against Massa- 
chusetts; see p. 681. If peace, peace — but there is no peace: cf. Jer. 6:14: "They 
have healed also the hurt of the daughter of my people slightly, saying, Peace, 
peace; when there is no peace." If The war is actually begun: a true forecast of 
what was to happen in three weeks, at Lexington and Concord. 



ETHAN ALLEN 

(200) A Narrative of Col. Ethan Allen's Captivity. The text is from 
the Newbury edition of 1780. 1f the Green Mountain boys: Vermont militia, organ- 
ized by Colonel Allen, f the fortress Ticonderoga: at the northern end of Lake 
George, on the outlet from that lake to Lake Champlain. If Bennington: in south- 
western Vermont, about seventy miles from Ticonderoga. 

THOMAS PAINE 

(202) Common Sense. The text is from the third edition, Philadelphia, 1776. 

(203) Boston; that seat of wretchedness: Boston was occupied by the British 
army, while the American army, under Washington, was besieging the city. 

(204) government: the British government, as represented by the army. 

(205) as Milton wisely expresses: Paradise Lost, IV, 98, 99. 

THOMAS JEFFERSON 

(205) The Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen United States of 
America. The text is from a reduced facsimile of the original document. The 
declaration, although in the main the work of Jefferson, embodies various emenda- 
tions by John Adams and Benjamin Franklin. 



GEORGE WASHINGTON 

(209) Answer to Congress on His Appointment as Commander-in-Chief. 
The text is from Jared Sparks's edition of Washington's works, 1840. If no pecuniary 
consideration: Congress had already fixed the salary of commander-in-chief at 
$500 a month. 

(209) To Mrs. Martha Washington. The text is from Sparks's edition. 

(211) A Letter to the President of Congress. The text is from Sparks's 
edition. If Valley Forge: about twenty miles from Philadelphia, on the Schuylkill 
River. If the city: Philadelphia. 

(212) battle of Brandywine: on September 11, 1777. If the surrender of Gen- 
eral Burgoyne: on October 17, 1777. 

(214) Farewell Address. The text is from James Lennox's reprint (1850) 
of the first edition. The phrasing of the address is largely due to Alexander Hamil- 
ton, who at Washington's request drew up a draught of the proposed paper. 



NOTES 683 

ALEXANDER HAMILTON 

(216) The Federalist. No. XXII. The text is from the 1788 edition. 

(219) nine states which contain less than a majority of the people: New Hamp- 
shire, Rhode Island, Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, 
Georgia, South Carolina. 

(221) United Provinces: the Netherlands. 

WASHINGTON IRVING 

"For my part, I consider a story merely as a frame on which to stretch my 
materials. It is the play of thought, and sentiment, and language; the weaving 
in of characters, lightly, yet expressively delineated; the familiar and faithful 
exhibition of scenes in common life; and the half -concealed vein of humor that is 
often playing through the whole; these are among what I aim at, and upon which 
I felicitate myself in proportion as I think I succeed. I have preferred adopting 
the mode of sketches and short tales rather than long works, because I choose to 
take a line of writing peculiar to myself, rather than fall into the manner or school 
of any other writer; and there is a constant activity of thought and a nicety of 
execution required in writings of the kind, more than the world appears to imagine. 
It is comparatively easy to swell a story to any size when you have once the scheme 
and the characters in your mind; the mere interest of the story, too, carries the 
reader on through pages and pages of careless writing, and the author may often 
be dull for half a volume at a time, if he has some striking scene at the end of it; 
but in these shorter writings, every page must have its merit. The author must 
be continually piquant; woe to him if he makes an awkward sentence or writes a 
stupid page; the critics are sure to pounce upon it. Yet if he succeed, the very 
variety and piquancy of his writings — nay, their very brevity, make them frequently 
recurred to, and when the mere interest of the story is exhausted, he begins to get 
credit for his touches of pathos or humor; his points of wit or turns of language." 
— Irving, in a letter of December n, 1824. 

(224) A History of New York. From chapter 1, Book III. The text is 
from the 1865 edition. 1f New Amsterdam: what is now New York. 

(227) timmerman = timberman, woodworker. \ King Log: according to 
^Esop the frogs wanted a king, and Jupiter threw them down a log to be their 
ruler. 

(228) seal-ring of the great Haroun Alraschid: see The Arabian Nights. If true 
believers: Mohammedans. 

(229) The Sketch Book. The text is from the 1858 edition. 

(229) Rip Van Winkle. "The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been 
suggested to Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the 
Emperor Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kypphaiiser mountain." — Irving's note. 
The legend of a magic sleep is found in various forms in several literatures. 

(23 1 ) galligaskins = breeches. 

(236) Hollands: Holland gin. 

(240) Antony's Nose: a promontory on the Hudson. 

(243) The Mutability of Literature. 



684 AMERICAN PROSE 



(244) Doomsday book: a book containing the results of a census of the lands 
of England, completed in 1086 by order of William the Conqueror; so called because 
its "dooms," or decisions, were considered final. 

(247) Wynkyn de Worde: a famous English printer, of the early sixteenth 
century. 

(248) Spenser's 'Well of pure English undefiled': Spenser used the phrase 
of Chaucer: 

Dan Chaucer, well of English unclefyled, 

On Fames eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled. 

— The Faerie Queene, IV, ii, 32. 

\ Runic: the runes were the alphabet of the northern peoples of Europe and hence 
quite unintelligible in Tartary. \ euphuisms: elaborate, affected expressions char- 
acteristic of the Euphues of Lyly (1554-1606). 

(252) Tales of a Traveller. The text is from the 1866 edition. IT Buck- 
thorne: at the beginning of Part II of Tales of a Traveller, which is entitled "Buck- 
thorne and His Friends," the fictitious narrator says, "Chance fortunately threw 
me in the way of a literary man by the name of Buckthorne, an eccentric personage, 
who had lived much in the metropolis [London], and could give me the natural 
history of every odd animal to be met with in that wilderness of men." In his 
own story Buckthorne has already told of meeting Flimsey, "the strolling 
manager." 

( 2 53) Lord Townly: a character in The Provoked Husband, Cibber's version 
of Van Brugh's Journey to London. 

(254) "Upon this hint, I spoke": Othello, Act I, scene hi, 1. 166. 

(255) Covent Garden and Drury Lane: famous London theaters. 
(257) Bond Street: an aristocratic part of London. 

(259) met together .... kissed each other: cf. Ps. 85:10, "Mercy and 
truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other." 1f Eidou- 
ranion: an orrery, or machine illustrating the revolutions of the sun and planets. 
\ Pillgarlick: one who has hard luck. \ "a beggarly account of empty boxes": the 
words are cleverly twisted from their original use in Romeo and Juliet (Act V, 
scene i, 1. 45), where they refer to the boxes in a poor apothecary's shop. 

(260) "one fell swoop": Macbeth, Act IV, scene iii, 1. 219. \ "be all and the 
end all": Macbeth, Act I, scene vii, 1. 5. If "the bell then beating one": Hamlet, 
Act I, scene i, 1. 39. If "end of all my greatness": misquoted from Henry VIII, Act 
III, scene ii, 1. 351, "a long farewell to all my greatness." 

(261) ore rotundo: "with rounded mouth," i.e., full, deep voice. 

(263) Alexander the coppersmith: referred to in II Tim. 4:14. ^Banquo's 
shadowy line: the phantoms representing Banquo's descendants who were to 
become kings of Scotland; see Macbeth, Act IV, scene i. 

(264) The Alhambra. The text is from the 1865 edition. Arabians and 
Moors invaded Spain in the eighth century, conquered the Goths, who had been 
converted to Christianity long before, and set up a Mohammedan kingdom which 
lasted until 1492, when Ferdinand, king of Spain, overthrew it. Granada was its 
capital, in which stood the Alhambra, a citadel and palace. 

(273) Abishag: I Kings 1:1-5. 



NOTES . 685 

Contemporary Criticism 

"Another fault, which is found principally in Knickerbocker, is that of forcing 
wit as if from duty — running it down, and then whipping and spurring it into motion 

again No doubt, a good deal might be taken from Knickerbocker, which 

would leave it more sustained and vivid; yet, after the witty and humorous works 
of a few of the standard English authors, there are no books of the kind in the lan- 
guage half so entertaining, in which the circumstances are so ludicrous, and the 

characters so well sustained and made out We will be open with him, and 

tell him that we do not think the change [in The Sketch Book] is for the better. 
He appears to have lost a little of that natural run of style, for which his lighter 
writings were so remarkable. He has given up something of his direct, simple 
manner, and plain phraseology, for a more studied, periphrastical mode of expres- 
sion. He seems to have exchanged words and phrases, which were strong, distinct, 

and definite, for a genteel sort of language, cool, less definite, and general 

The same difference holds with respect to the strength, quickness, and life of the 
thoughts and feelings. The air about this last work is soft, but there is a 
still languor in it." — R. H. Dana, in The North American Review, September, 
1819. 

"It [The Sketch Book] is the work of an American, entirely bred and trained 
in that country — originally published within its territory — and, as we understand, 
very extensively circulated, and very much admired among its natives. Now, the 
most remarkable thing in a work so circumstanced certainly is, that it should be 
written throughout with the greatest care and accuracy, and worked up to great 
purity and beauty of diction, on the model of the most elegant and polished of 
our native writers. It is the first American work, we rather think, of any descrip- 
tion, but certainly the first purely literary production, to which we could give this 
praise; and we hope and trust that we may hail it as the harbinger of a purer 
and juster taste — the foundation of a chaster and better school, for the writers of 

that great and intelligent country The want is of force and originality 

in the reasoning, and speculative parts, and of boldness and incident in the invent- 
ive: — though the place of these more commanding qualities is not ill supplied 
by great liberality and sound sense, and by a very considerable vein of humour, 
and no ordinary grace and tenderness of fancy." — The Edinburgh Review, August, 
1820. 

" Geoffrey Crayon is an American born, and has written with a taste and ele- 
gance, 'tis true, not often rivalled even in England; but, that for a great deal of 
this perfection he is indebted to a long residence in this country, few will deny. 
His life of Campbell is written in very bad taste; and the History of New York, 
in spite of some humorous traits, is often both very indecorous and very dull. 
Had English critics a meditated design of deteriorating American literature, and 
of emasculating it of all originality, they could not have pursued a better course 
than the one they have done, of lauding fiercely the ' Sketch Book,' and recommend- 
ing it as a model to the author's countrymen The beauties of Irving become 

rank defects, when we consider him as one of the aboriginal writers of a country. 
We love independence in others, as well as in ourselves."- — Blackwood's Magazine, 
June, 1822. 



686 AMERICAN PROSE 



"From the evidence of this tale ["Buckthorne," in Tales of a Traveller], 
which abounds in point and incident, it seems probable to us that he might as a 
novelist prove no contemptible rival to Goldsmith, whose turn of mind he very 
much inherits, and of whose style he particularly reminds us in the life of Dribble. 
Like him, too, Mr. Irving possesses the art of setting ludicrous perplexities in the 
most irresistible point of view, and we think equals him in the variety, if not in 
the force of his humor." — The Quarterly Review, March, 1825. 

"Irving is much overrated, and a nice distinction might be drawn between 
his just and his surreptitious and adventitious reputation — between what is due 
to the pioneer solely, and what to the writer. The merit, too, of his tame propriety 
and faultlessness of style should be candidly weighed. He should be compared 
with Addison, something being hinted about imitation, and Sir Roger de Coverley 
should be brought up in judgment." — E. A. Poe, in a letter to the editor of The 
American Museum, September 4, 1838. 

"The Spectator, Mr. Irving, and Mr. Hawthorne have in common that tran- 
quil and subdued manner which we have chosen to denominate repose; but, in the 
case of the two former, this repose is attained rather by the absence of novel 
combination, or of originality, than otherwise, and consists chiefly in the calm, 
quiet, unostentatious expression of commonplace thoughts, in an unambitious, 
unadulterated Saxon." — E. A. Poe, in a review of Twice-Toli Tales, in Graham's 
Magazine, May, 1842. 

"The 'Tales of a Traveler,' by Irving, are graceful and impressive narratives 
— 'The Young Italian' is especially good — but there is not one of the series which 
can be commended as a whole. In many of them the interest is subdivided and 
frittered away, and their conclusions are insufficiently climacic." — E. A. Poe, in 
an article on Hawthorne, in Godey's Lady's Book, November, 1847. 

EDGAR ALLAN POE 

"A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned 
his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate 
care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such inci- 
dents — he then combines such events as may best aid him in establishing this precon- 
ceived effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the outbringing of this effect, 
then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no word 
written, of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one pre-established 
design. And by such means, with such care and skill, a picture is at length 
painted which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates it with a kindred art, a 

sense of the fullest satisfaction It may be added here, par parenthese, that 

the author who aims at the purely beautiful in a prose tale is laboring at great 
disadvantage. For Beauty can be better treated in the poem. Not so with terror, 
or passion, or horror, or a multitude of such other points. And here it will be seen 
how full of prejudice are the usual animadversions against those tales of effect, 

many fine examples of which were found in the earlier numbers of Blackwood 

The true critic will but demand that the design intended be accomplished, to the 
fullest extent, by the means most advantageously applicable." — Poe, in a review 
of Twice-Told Tales, in Graham's Magazine, May, 1842. 



NOTES 687 

(280) A Descent into the Maelstrom. The text is from the 1845 (London) 
edition. There are dangerous tidal currents at the point of the Norwegian coast 
described in the tale, but the huge whirlpool is Poe's invention. H Joseph Glanville: 
an English author of the seventeenth century. 

(281) Nubian geographer's: in Eureka Poe refers to "the Nubian geographer, 
Ptolemy Hephestion," probably meaning Ptolemy, the famous Egyptian astronomer 
and geographer of the second century a.d.; there is no evidence that he was a 
Nubian. If M are Tenebrarum: "Sea of Shadows," the Atlantic, of which little 
was known by the ancients. 

(282) a mile: in Lorimer Graham's copy of the tales, Poe changed this to 
" half a mile." 

(283) a N-orway mile: about four and a half English miles. 

(287) taken aback: a sea phrase meaning that the motion of the vessel was 
checked by a change of wind that blew the sails back upon the masts. 

(289) going large: running before the wind. 1f counter: a part of the stern. 

(291) small: In Lorimer Graham's copy of the tales, Poe changed this to 
"large." % lay more along: inclined more from the horizontal; cf. the second 
paragraph below, in the text. 

(294) of any form whatever: "See Archimedes, 'De Incidentibus in Fluido.' — 
lib. 2." — Poe's note. Archimedes, of the third century B.C., was the greatest of the 
Greek mathematicians. 

(295) The Fall oe the House oe Usher. The text is from the 1845 (London) 
edition. IT "Son caur .... resonne": "His heart is a suspended lute; so soon 
as one touches it, it responds." Beranger was a contemporary French poet (1780- 
1857); the lines have not been found in his works. 

(299) ennuyS: "tired," "bored." 

(304) Porphyrogene: "Born to the purple," i.e., of royal birth. 

(305) other men: "Watson, Dr. Percival, Spallanzani, and especially the 
Bishop of Llandaff . — See ' Chemical Essays,' vol. v." — -Poe's note. 1f such works: 
most of those enumerated are known really to exist, but some are not of the nature 
which Poe implies — Belphegor, e.g., is a satire on marriage. 

(306) (Egipans: error for "^Egipans," the name given by Mela and Pliny to 
goat-like men in Africa, perhaps baboons. \ Vigiliae .... Maguntinae: " Vigils 
of the Dead according to the Choir of the Church of Maguntia [ = Mayence]." 
No such book is known. 

(309) "Mad Trist" of Sir Launcelot Canning: no such tale or writer is 
known. 

(313) The Pit and the Pendulum. The text is from Griswold's 1850 edition, 
except for a few readings from the Broadway Journal text. The tale has a certain 
historical background in the punishments inflicted on heretics by the Spanish 
Inquisition, a state institution, which in earlier centuries had gone to great extremes 
of cruelty; these, however, had long been abandoned at the time of the tale, which 
is pitched early in the nineteenth century. \ Impia .... patent: "Here an 
impious band, insatiate, nourished its prolonged madness on innocent blood. 
Now that the country is saved and the cave of death destroyed, where dire death 
was, life and health lie open." The motto is from Disraeli's Curiosities of Literature; 



688 AMERICAN PROSE 



there was such a market, but no such inscription. If Jacobin Club House: the 
Jacobins supported Robespierre in the Reign of Terror. 

(316) autos-da-fe: executions of heretics (literally, "acts of faith"). 

(321) Ultima Thule: the name given by the ancients to an island in the 
Atlantic, far to the north; it came to be used for any extreme limit. 

(327) General Lasalle: a cavalry officer under Napoleon, who invaded Spain 
in 1808 and suppressed the Inquisition. 

(327) The Purloined Letter. The text is from the 1845 (London) edition. 
^ Nil .... nimio: "Nothing more odious to wisdom than too much acumen." 
Seneca was a Roman philosopher of the first century a.d. 1f au troisieme: "on the 
third" floor. If the Rue Morgue .... Marie Roget: see Poe's tales, "The 
Murders in the Rue Morgue," and "The Mystery of Marie Roget." 

(330) hotel: dwelling-house, mansion. 

(331) aufait: "up to the fact," "expert." 

(334) Abernethy: a famous and somewhat eccentric British physician (1764- 
1831). 

(336) Procrustean bed: Procrustes ("the Stretcher") was a legendary Greek 
robber, who tortured his captives by stretching them to fit his bed if they were 
too short for it, and cutting off portions of their limbs if they were too long. 

(337) recherch&s: "sought out"; here in the sense of "that must be sought 
for, hidden." 

(338) non distributio medii: "the undistributed middle," a term of mediaeval 
logic; here it means that the reasoner has failed to distribute, or divide, the middle 
term of his syllogism, poets, into those who are fools and those who are not. If 'II 
y a . . . . notnbre': "I am ready to wager that every public idea, every received 
convention, is nonsense, for it has been agreed to by the majority." % Chamfort: 
a French writer of the eighteenth century. 

(339) 'ambitus': "going about to- solicit something." ^'religio': "conscien- 
tiousness." ^'homines honestV: "distinguished men." (In secondary senses, 
however, all these words had the meanings that Dupin rejects.) 

(340) intriguant: "intriguer." 

(341) vis inertia: "force of inertia." 

(344) facilis descensus Averni: "easy the descent to Hell." \monstrum 
horrendum: "horrid monster." If Un dessein .... Thyeste: "A design so fatal, 
if it is not worthy of Atreus, is worthy of Thyestes." Thyestes seduced the wife 
of his brother, Atreus, king of Mycenae, and attempted to kill him; Atreus in 
revenge slew the son of Thyestes and gave the body to him to eat. 1f Cr&billon's: 
Crebillon (1674-1762) was a French dramatist. 

Contemporary Criticism 

"In his tales, Mr. Poe has chosen to exhibit his power chiefly in that dim region 
which stretches from the very utmost limits of the probable into the weird confines 
of superstition and unreality. He combines in a very remarkable manner two 
faculties which are seldom found united; a power of influencing the mind of the 
reader by the impalpable shadows of mystery, and a minuteness of detail which 
does not leave a pin or a button unnoticed. Both are, in truth, the natural results 



NOTES 689 

of the predominating quality of his mind, to which we have before alluded, analysis. 
It is this which distinguishes the artist. His mind at once reaches forward to the 
effect to be produced. Having resolved to bring about certain emotions in the 
reader, he makes all subordinate parts tend strictly to the common centre. Even 

his mystery is mathematical to his own mind For this reason Mr. Poe has 

no sympathy with Mysticism. The mystic dwells in the mystery, is enveloped 
with it; it colors all his thoughts; it affects his optic nerve especially, and the 
commonest things get a rainbow edging from it. Mr. Poe, on the other hand, is a 
spectator ab extra. He analyzes, he dissects, he watches 

— with an eye serene, 
The very pulse of the machine. 

... A monomania he paints with great power. He loves to dissect these cancers 
of the mind, and to trace all the subtile ramifications of its roots. In raising images 
of horror, also, he has a strange success; conveying to us sometimes by a dusky 

hint some terrible doubt which is the secret of all horror His style is highly 

finished, graceful, and truly classical. It would be hard to find a living author 
who had displayed such varied powers." — J. R. Lowell, in Graham's Magazine, 
February, 1845. 

"No one can read these tales, then close the volume, as he may with a thousand 
other tales, and straightway forget what manner of book he has been reading. 
Commonplace is the last epithet that can be applied to them. They are strange — ■ 
powerful — more strange than pleasing, and powerful productions without rising to 

the rank of genius There is, in the usual sense of the word, no passion in 

these tales, neither is there any attempt made at dramatic dialogue. The bent of 
Mr. Poe's mind seems rather to have been towards reasoning than sentiment. 
The style, too, has nothing peculiarly commendable; and when the embellishments 
of metaphor and illustration are attempted, they are awkward, strained, infelicitous. 
But the tales rivet the attention. There is a marvellous skill in putting together 
the close array of facts and of details which make up the narrative, or the picture; 
for the effect of his description, as of his story, depends never upon any bold display 
of the imagination, but on the agglomeration of incidents, enumerated in the most 
veracious manner." — Blackwood's Magazine, November, 1847. 

"He has De Foe's peculiar talent for filling up his pictures with minute life- 
like touches — for giving an air of remarkable naturalness and truth to whatever 

he paints In A Descent into the Maelstrom you are made fairly to feel 

yourself on the descending round of the vortex, convoying fleets of drift timber, 

and fragments of wrecks; the terrible whirl makes you giddy as you read 

But in Mr. Poe, the peculiar talent to which we are indebted for Robinson Crusoe, 
and the memoirs of Captain Monroe, has an addition. Truthlike as nature itself, 
his strange fiction shows constantly the presence of a singularly adventurous, 
very wild, and thoroughly poetic imagination." — P. P. Cooke, in The Southern 
Literary Messenger, January, 1848. 

"He was a man of extraordinary boldness and originality of intellect, with a 
power of sharp and subtle analysis that has seldom been surpassed, and an imagina- 
tion singularly prolific both in creations of beauty and of terror With these 



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rare gifts of invention and expression, Mr. Poe might have attained an eminent 
rank in literature, and even have been classed among the intellectual benefactors 
of society. Unhappily, he had no earnestness of character, no sincerity of convic- 
tion, no faith in human excellence, no devotion to a high purpose — not even the 
desire to produce a consummate work of art — and hence, his writings fail of appealing 
to universal principles of taste, and are destitute of the truth and naturalness, 

which are the only passports to an enduring reputation in literature The 

effect of his writings is like breathing the air of a charnel house." — The New York 
Tribune, as reprinted in Littell's Living Age, April 13, 1850. 

"Several of his prose tales fully equal in imaginative power, in vividness of 
description, and in thorough artistic finish, anything that he ever produced in a 
metrical form. Among several in the highest style of art, we would instance 'Ligeia,' 
and 'The Fall of the House of Usher.' .... The impression which is made by 
Poe's writings, as a whole, is decidedly painful, the contrast is forced so perpetually 
upon us of what he was, and how he used his talents, with what he might have 
been, and might have accomplished, had he applied his energies to any one noble 
purpose. We find in him great mental power, but no mental health. His force 
was the preternatural activity of a strong imagination, which, curbless and uncon- 
trolled, bore him whithersoever it would. Even his ambition had nothing ennobling 
in it." — The North American Review, October, 1856. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

(345) The American Scholar. The text is from the 1856 edition. The 
address was delivered before the Harvard chapter of the Phi Beta Kappa Society 
in 1837. 

(348) quick = living. 

(354) Druids: the priests of the ancient Celts, who offered human sacrifices. 
If Berserkirs: heroes of Teutonic mythology, who fought naked, frenzied with 
liquor, and regardless of wounds. If Alfred: the beneficent English king of the 
ninth century. 

(357) Macdonald: the head of a famous Scotch clan. 

(361) Pestalozzi: a Swiss educational reformer (1746-1827). 

(362) The Over-Soul. From Essays, First Series. The text is from the 
1857 edition. 

(366) Zeno and Arrian: Greek Stoic philosophers of the third century B.C. 
and the first century A.D., respectively. 

(369) Emanuel Swedenborg: cf. "The American Scholar," p. 361. 

(370) "blasted with excess of light": Gray's "Progress of Poesy,"III. 2. ^trances 
of Socrates: "You have often heard me speak of an oracle or sign which comes to 
me, and is the divinity which Meletus ridicules in the indictment. This sign I 
have had ever since I was a child. The sign is a voice which comes to me and always 
forbids me to do something which I am going to do, but never commands me to 
do anything." — Plato's Apology, Jowett's translation. Tf Plotinus: a neo-Platonist, 
of the third century a.d., who believed in a mystic union of the human soul with the 
Infinite. 1 Porphyry: a disciple of Plotinus. If conversion of Paul: Acts 9; cf. 



NOTES 691 

II Cor. 12:1-4. % Behmen: Jacob Behmen (1575-1624), a German mystic, who 
believed that his mind was directly illumined by God; Aurora is the title of one 
of his works. If George Fox: he founded the sect of Quakers, about 1669. 

(375) Christina: queen of Sweden, who abdicated in 1654 and settled in Rome, 
where she became the patron of men of letters and science. If said Milton: in 
Areopagitica. 

(377) Nature. From Essays, Second Series. The text is from the 1857 
edition. 

(379) villeggiatura: the word strictly means the pleasures of the country, or 
a period of retirement in the country; Emerson seems to have taken it to mean a 
village festival. 

(380) Versailles: the country palace of the kings of France. If Paphos: a city 
on the island of Cyprus, where was a famous temple of Aphrodite. If Ctesiphon: a 
city in Mesopotamia, the site of a magnificent palace of the Persian kings. If Notch 
Mountains: at Crawford Notch in the White Mountains, New Hampshire. 

(381) Tempes: the vale of Tempe in Greece was famed for its beauty. If Como 
Lake: in northern Italy. If Campagna: the open country around Rome. 

(382) take place: take precedence, have the preference. 1f euphuism: an 
affected way of writing, characteristic of the style of Lyly's Euphues (1579-80). 

If quick = living. 

(383) Ptolemaic schemes: Ptolemy, an Alexandrian astronomer of the second 
century a.d., believed that the earth was the center of the universe, which he 
conceived of as much smaller than it is. 

(387) Jacob Behmen and George Fox: see notes above. If James Naylor: a 
Quaker fanatic, who, believing himself to be a reincarnation of Christ, in 1655 
rode into Bristol on horseback, naked, in imitation of Christ's entry into Jerusalem; 
he was punished for blasphemy and recanted. 

(390) (Edipus: the legendary Greek king who guessed the riddle of the Sphinx. 

(391) Behavior. From The Conduct of Life. The text is from the i860 
edition. 

(392) Consuelo: the title character in a novel (1842) by George Sand. 
If Talma: a French actor (1763-1826). ^better the instruction: from The Mer- 
chant of Venice, Act III, scene i, 1. 76. 

(394) frivolus Asmodeus: an evil spirit of Jewish legend; see "Tobit" in the 
Old Testament Apocrypha. If ropes of sand to twist: a symbol of useless activity, 
to kill time. If Charles Dickens: see his American Notes. 1f this city: Boston. 
If Claverhouse: a dashing Scotch soldier who fought for James II against William III; 
see Scott's poem, "Bonnie Dundee." 

(395) 0« old statesman: probably John Quincy Adams. If emir: an Arabian 
title, signifying "leader" or "commander." % Abdel-Kader: an Algerian chief 
taken prisoner by the French in 1847; he contributed material to a book, by a 
French officer, with which Emerson was acquainted. 

(398) Winckelmann: the author of a famous work (1764) on ancient art. 
If Lavater: the founder (1775-78) of the so-called science of physiognomy. If "the 
terrors of the beak": misquoted from Gray's "Progress of Poesy," I. 2, "The terror 
of his beak," where it refers to the eagle of Jove. ^Balzac: a French novelist 



692 AMERICAN PROSE 



(1790-1850). 1[ "Theorie de la demarche": "Theory of the Gait." % Saint 
Simon, . . . . de Retz, .... Roederer: Frenchmen of the eighteenth, seventeenth, 
and eighteenth centuries, respectively, who wrote memoirs illustrating life at court. 
If "Notre Dame": a novel by Victor Hugo (1802-85). 

(399) Fuseli: a Swiss painter (1741-1825), who lived much in England. 
If Northcote: an English painter, a contemporary of Fuseli. 

(400) Pariah caste: the lowest caste in India, shunned by all the other 
castes. If says Aspasia: in Landor's Imaginary Conversations, "Pericles and 
Aspasia," CLIV. 

(401) a sibyl: probably Emerson's aunt, Mary Moody Emerson. % Cassan- 
dras: Cassandra, daughter of Priam, was given prophetic insight by Apollo. 

(402) Aristotle, nor Leibnitz, nor Junius, nor Champollion: Aristotle's works 
include a treatise on rhetoric; Leibnitz (1646-17 16) gave some attention to philol- 
ogy; Franziskus Junius (1580-1677), a student of Teutonic tongues, wrote on 
English etymology; Champollion (1700-1832) discovered the key to the Egyptian 
hieroglyphic inscriptions. If Jacobi: a German philosopher (1743-1819). 

Contemporary Criticism 

" Emerson fills the same role of observer and of endless seeker, with an audacity 
and a concentration of thought which bring him near at the same time to the sages 
of antiquity Emerson has all the qualities of the sage: originality, spon- 
taneity, wise observation, delicate analysis, critical temper, and freedom from 
dogmatism." — Revue des Deux Mondes, July-September, 1847. (Translation.) 

"When we accuse Mr. Emerson of obscurity, it is net obscurity of style that 
we mean. His style often rises — as our readers have had already opportunities of 
judging — into a vivid, terse, and graphic eloquence, agreeably tinged at times 
with a poetic colouring; and although he occasionally adopts certain inversions 
which are not customary in modern prose, he never lays himself open to the charge 
of being difficult or unintelligible. But there is an obscurity of thought — in the 
very matter of his writings — produced first by a vein of mysticism which runs 
throughout his works, and, secondly, by a manner he sometimes has of sweeping 
together into one paragraph a number of unsorted ideas, but scantily related to 
each other — bringing up his drag-net with all manner of fish in it, and depositing 

it then and there before us That which forms the great and inextinguishable 

charm of those writings is the fine moral temper they display, the noble ardour, 
the high ethical tone they everywhere manifest and sustain, and especially that 
lofty independence of his intellect, that freedom of his reason which the man who 
aspires after true cultivation should watch over and preserve with the utmost 
jealousy." — Blackwood's Magazine, December, 1847. 

"The present volume [Representative Men] is marked strongly both by the 
excellences and defects of Mr. Emerson's other writings. His style is often musical, 
clear, and brilliant; words are selected with so rare a felicity that they have the 
shine of diamonds, and they cut their meaning on the reader's mind as the diamond's 
edge leaves its trace deep and sharp on the surface of glass. But by and by, 
we fall upon a passage which either conveys no distinct sense, or in which some 
very common-place thought is made to sound with the clangor of a braying trumpet. 



NOTES 693 

Quaintness of thought and expression is his easily besetting sin; and here lies the 
secret of his sympathy with Carlyle, that highly gifted master of oddity and affec- 
tation. As a writer, Mr. Emerson is every way Carlyle's superior, would he but 
let the Carlylese dialect alone. He has more imagination, more refinement and 
subtlety of thought, more taste in style, more exquisite sense of rhythm. Perhaps 
his range of intellectual vision is not so broad. He has not the learning of Carlyle, 
nor the abundant humor, which sometimes reconciles us even to absurdity. But 
Mr. Emerson has a more delicate wit, a wit often quite irresistible by its unexpected 
turns, and the sudden introduction of effective contrasts." — C. C. Felton, in The 
North American Review, April, 1850. 

"The bother with Mr. Emerson is, that, though he writes in prose, he is essen- 
tially a poet. If you undertake to paraphrase what he says, and to reduce it to 
words of one syllable for infant minds, you will make as sad work of it as the good 
monk with his analysis of Homer in the 'Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum.' We 
look upon him as one of the few men of genius whom our age has produced, and 
there needs no better proof of it than his masculine faculty of fecundating other 
minds. Search for his eloquence in his books and you will perchance miss it, but 
meanwhile you will find that it has kindled all your thoughts. For choice and pith 
of language he belongs to a better age than ours, and might rub shoulders with 
Fuller and Browne, — though he does use that abominable word, reliable. His 
eye for a fine, telling phrase that will carry true is like that of a backwoodsman for 
a rifle; and he will dredge you up a choice word from the ooze of Cotton Mather 
himself. A diction at once so rich and so homely as his we know not where to 
match in these days of writing by the page; it is like homespun cloth-of-gold. 
The many cannot miss his meaning, and only the few can find it. It is the open 
secret of all true genius." — J. R. Lowell, in The Atlantic Monthly, February, 1861. 

"Whether he turns his eyes abroad or fixes them on what passes around 
him at home, he can now and again send a glance right to the heart of the matter. 
Looking across the dreary flats of the American multitude, we see him as a man 
in their midst of pronounced individuality, with force to resist the tyranny of the 
majority — with moral courage and mental vigour enough to withstand the pressure 
of the crowd. Although sitting, he seems to us a head and shoulders above the 
rest, and we think that what he says of his countrymen, as of us, is worth listening 
to." — The Quarterly Review, January, 1864. 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

(406) The Minister's Black Veil. From Twice-Told Tales. The text is 
from the 1851 edition. 

(411) they tolled the wedding knell: see Hawthorne's tale, "The Wedding 
Knell," in Twice-Told Tales. 

(418) Dr. Heidegger's Experiment. From Twice-Told Tales. The text is 
from the 1851 edition. 

(419) Hippocrates: a famous Greek physician, of the fifth century B.C., called 
"the father of medicine." 

(428) Rappaccini's Daughter. From Mosses from an Old Manse. The 
text is from the 1854 edition. 



694 AMERICAN PROSE 



(429) Verlumnus: the god of the changing nature of the seasons. 

(434) lacryma: lacryma Christi ("tear of Christ"), a strong red wine. 

(446) an old classic author: Sir Thomas Browne (1605-82). In his Pseud odoxia 
Epidemica, or "Vulgar Errors," Book VII, chapter 17, he says, "A story there 
passeth of an Indian king, that sent unto Alexander a fair woman, fed with aconites 
and other poisons, with this intent, .... complexionally to destroy him." Haw- 
thorne enters the sentence in his American Note-Books, under date of January 4, i83g. 

(448) Benvenulo Cellini: a Florentine silversmith and sculptor (1500-71). 
^ poisons of the Borgias: Cesare Borgia (1478-1507) and Lucrezia Borgia (1480- 
1519), children of Pope Alexander VI, gained an evil fame — undeserved by 
Lucrezia — for murders committed by the use of poisons. 

(455) Feathertop. From Mosses from an Old Manse. The text is from the 
1854 edition. 

(457) powwow = conjurer. 

(463) shares in a broken bubble: an allusion to the famous South Sea Bubble, 
the name given to a scheme originating in England near the beginning of the eight- 
eenth century, to secure a monopoly of trade with Spanish South America; it 
collapsed, and the stockholders lost heavily. 

Contemporary Criticism 

"We are disposed, on the strength of these volumes [Twice-Told Tales], to 
accord to Mr. Hawthorne a high rank among the writers of this country, and to 
predict, that his contributions to its imaginative literature will enjoy a permanent 
and increasing reputation. Though he has not produced any elaborate and long- 
sustained work of fiction, yet his writings are most strikingly characterized by that 

creative originality, which is the essential life-blood of genius He blends 

together, with a skilful hand, the two worlds of the seen and the unseen. He never 
fairly goes out of the limits of probability, never calls up an actual ghost, or dispenses 
with the laws of nature; but he passes as near as possible to the dividing line, and 
his skill and ingenuity are sometimes tasked to explain, by natural laws, that which 
produced upon the reader all the effect of the supernatural. In this, too, his 

originality is conspicuously displayed His language is very pure, his words 

are uniformly well chosen, and his periods are moulded with great grace and skill." 
— H. W. Longfellow, in The North American Review, April, 1842. 

"Of Mr. Hawthorne's Tales we would say, emphatically, that they belong 

to the highest region of Art — an Art subservient to genius of a very lofty order 

There is, perhaps, a somewhat too general or prevalent tone — a tone of melancholy 
and mysticism. The subjects are insufficiently varied. There is not so much of 
versatility evinced as we might well be warranted in expecting from the high powers 
of Mr. Hawthorne. But beyond these trivial exceptions we have really none to 
make. The style is purity itself." — E. A. Poe, in Graham's Magazine, May, 1842. 

"He is infinitely too fond of allegory, and can never hope for popularity so 
long as he persists in it. This he will not do, for allegory is at war with the whole 
tone of his nature, which disports itself never so well as when escaping from the 
mysticism of his Goodman Browns and White Old Maids into the hearty, genial, 
but still Indian-summer sunshine of his Wakefields and Little Annie's Rambles. 



NOTES 695 

.... Let him mend his pen, get a bottle of visible ink, come out from the Old 
Manse, cut Mr. Alcott, hang (if possible) the editor of 'The Dial,' and throw out 
of the window to the pigs all his odd numbers of 'The North American Review.'" 
— E. A. Poe, in Godey's Lady's Book, November, 1847. 

"The 'Mosses from an old Manse,' is occasionally written with an elegance 
of style which may almost bear comparison with that of Washington Irving; and 
though certainly it is inferior to the works of that author in taste and judgment, 
and whatever may be described as artistic talent, it exhibits deeper traces of thought 

and reflection Mr. Hawthorne appears to have little skill and little taste 

for dealing with matter of fact or substantial incident, but relies for his favourable 
impression on the charm of style, and the play of thought and fancy. The most 
serious defect in his stories is the frequent presence of some palpable improbability 
which mars the effect of the whole — .... improbability in the main motive and 
state of mind which he has undertaken to describe, and which forms the turning 
point of the whole narrative." — Blackwood's Magazine, November, 1847. 

"No one who has taken up the Scarlet Letter will willingly lay it down till 
he has finished it; and he will do well not to pause, for he cannot resume the story 
where he left it. He should give himself up to the magic power of the style, without 
stopping to open wide the eyes of his good sense and judgment, and shake off the 
spell; or half the weird beauty will disappear like a 'dissolving view.' .... One 
cannot but wonder, by the way, that the master of such a wizard power over lan- 
guage as Mr. Hawthorne manifests should not choose a less revolting subject than 
this of the Scarlet Letter, to which fine writing seems as inappropriate as fine 
embroidery." — Miss A. W. Abbott, in The North American Review, July, 1850. 

"He always takes us below the surface and beyond the material; his most 
inartificial stories are eminently suggestive; he makes us breathe the air of contem- 
plation, and turns our eyes inward And yet there is no painful extrava- 
gance, no transcendental vagaries in Hawthorne; his imagination is as human as 
his heart; if he touches the horizon of the infinite, it is with reverence; if he deals 
with the anomalies of sentiment, it is with intelligence and tenderness. His utter- 
ance too is singularly clear and simple; his style only rises above the colloquial in 

the sustained order of its flow; the terms are apt, natural and fitly chosen 

This genuine and unique romance [The Scarlet Letter] may be considered as an 
artistic exposition of Puritanism as modified by New England colonial life. In 
truth to costume, local manners and scenic features, the Scarlet Letter is as reliable 
as the best of Scott's novels; in the anatomy of human passion and consciousness 
it resembles the most effective of Balzac's illustrations of Parisian or provincial 
life, while in developing bravely and justly the sentiment of the life it depicts, it is 
as true to humanity as Dickens. Beneath its picturesque details and intense 
characterization, there lurks a profound satire." — H. T. Tuckerman, in The Southern 
Literary Messenger, June, 1851. 

"The mind of this child of witch-haunted Salem loved to hover between the 
natural and the supernatural, and sought to tread the almost imperceptible and 

doubtful line of contact His genius broods entranced over the evanescent 

phantasmagoria of the vague debatable land in which the realities of experience 
blend with ghostly doubts and wonders. But from its poisonous flowers what a 



696 AMERICAN PROSE 



wondrous perfume he distilled! Through his magic reed, into what penetrating 
melody he blew that deathly air! His relentless fancy seemed to seek a sin that 
was hopeless, a cruel despair that no faith could throw off. Yet his naive and well- 
poised genius hung over the gulf of blackness, and peered into the pit with the 

steady nerve and simple face of a boy It was not beauty in itself, nor 

deformity, not virtue nor vice, which engaged the author's deepest sympathy. It 
was the occult relation between the two. Thus while the Puritans were of all men 
pious, it was the instinct of Hawthorne's genius to search out and trace with terrible 
tenacity the dark and devious thread of sin in their lives. Human life and character, 
whether in New England two hundred years ago or in Italy to-day, interested him 
only as they were touched by this glamour of sombre spiritual mystery; and the 
attraction pursued him in every form in which it appeared." — G. W. Curtis, in 
The North American Review, October, 1864. 

"The Puritanism of the past found its unwilling poet in Hawthorne, the rarest 
creative imagination of the century, the rarest in some ideal respects since Shake- 
speare." — J. R. Lowell, in an article on Thoreau, in The North American Review, 
October, 1865. 

"That Fate which the Greeks made to operate from without, we recognize 
at work within in some vice of character or hereditary predisposition. Hawthorne, 
the most profoundly ideal genius of these latter days, was continually returning 
more or less directly, to this theme; and his 'Marble Faun,' whether consciously 
or not, illustrates that invasion of the aesthetic by the moral which has confused 
art by dividing its allegiance." — J. R.Lowell, in a review of Swinburne's tragedies, 
in The North American Review, April, 1866. 

"This is the quality likewise of Hawthorne's humour. But his has more 
piquancy and new-world flavour. To do it justice, however, would demand a close 
psychological study, so curious and complex were the nature and genius of the 
man; the nature was a singular growth for such a soil, the genius out of keeping with 
the environment, or, as the Americans would say, the 'fixings,' — a new-world 
man who shrank like a sensitive plant from the heat, and haste, and loudness of 
his countrymen, and whose brooding mind was haunted by shadows from the past. 
There was a sombre background to his mind or temperament, against which the 
humour plays more brightly." — The Quarterly Review, "Yankee Humour," January, 
1867. 

HENRY D. THOREAU 

(474) Walden. Chapters 2 and 12. The text is from the 1854 edition. 

(475) "/ am monarch of all I survey": from Cowper's poem on Alexander 
Selkirk, the original of Robinson Crusoe; in the last word Thoreau puns on his 
occupation as a land-surveyor. 

(478) Harivansa: a Sanskrit poem. 

(479) Damodara: a demi-god in Hindu poetry. 

(480) its own wrath and wanderings: the Iliad begins, "Sing, goddess, the 
wrath of Achilles"; the Odyssey tells of the wanderings of Odysseus on his way 
home from the Trojan War. If till forbidden: the words, contracted to "tf," used 
in newspapers to show that an advertisement is to stand until further notice. 



NOTES 697 

(481) The Vedas: the sacred books of India. If like Memnon: the statue of 
Memnon, in Egypt, was said to give forth a musical note when the first rays of 
the rising sun touched it. 

(482) "glorify God," etc.: from the Westminster Catechism. \ changed into 
men: a Greek fable says that Zeus turned ants into men, to repopulate an 
island smitten with the plague. If like pygmies we fight with cranes: see the Iliad 
iii. 3-7. If clout = patch. 

(483) setting the bell: poising it, mouth up, for a moment, and thus making 
it ring slower. 

(484) Wachito River: in Arkansas and Louisiana, in what were then rather 
wild regions. If mammoth cave: in Mammoth Cave, in Kentucky, are fish with 
only rudiments of eyes. If Don Carlos and the Infanta: Don Carlos was a pretender 
to the throne of Spain, who was defeated of his hopes by the recognition of the 
Infanta, daughter of the dead king, in 1834. 

(486) Brahme: used apparently for "Brahma," the name of the supreme 
god in Hindu mythology. % "Mill-dam": a meeting-place for gossip in Concord. 
1f tied to the mast like Ulysses: when the ship of Ulysses drew near the isle of the 
sirens, he sealed the ears of his crew with wax, and had them tie himself to the 
mast, that he might hear the sirens' song without yielding to its allurement; see 
the Odyssey vii. 

(487) in place: a geological term, meaning "in the original situation." If point 
d'appui: "point of support." 1f a companion: said to be William Ellery Channing. 

(488) off the coast of Spain: an allusion to the fanciful "castles in Spain." 

(489) Con-fut-see: Confucius, the Chinese philosopher, of the sixth century B.C. 
% Mem.= Memorandum. \Pilpay &° Co.: writers of animal fables; "Pilpay" is a 
modernized form of the title of an ancient Indian sage and fabulist. 

(492) Myrmidons: originally the Thessalian warriors who went with Achilles 
to the siege of Troy; then any fierce soldiers. %with his shield or upon it: 
"Another on handing her boy his shield, exhorting him, said, 'My son, either this 
or upon this.'" — Plutarch, Apothegms of the Laconian Women. If Achilles .... 
Palroclus: Achilles, the hero of the Iliad, sulks in his tent because of anger at 
a wrong done him by the Greek king, and rejoins the fight only when his friend 
Patroclus has been killed. 

(493) Austerlitz or Dresden: the scene of bloody victories won by Napoleon 
in 1805 and 1813. If Two killed: Captain Isaac Davis and Abner Hosmer. \ But- 
trick: Major Buttrick, in command of the American soldiers at Concord bridge. 

(494) Hotel des Invalides: a soldiers' home in Paris. If Kirby and Spence: 
authors of An Introduction to Entomology (1815-26). If Huber: a Swiss naturalist 
(1750-1831). *|f Mneas Sylvius: Pope Pius II (1405-46). If Olaus Magnus: a 
Swedish historian (1400-1558). 1f Webster's Fugitive-Slave Bill: a more stringent 
law to secure the return of fugitive slaves was enacted in 1850; Daniel Webster's 
support of it in the Senate (see p. 636) aroused indignation in New England (see 
Whittier's poem "Ichabod"). 

(495) winged as well as his horse: Pegasus, the winged horse of Greek mythol- 
ogy; by a kick of his hoof caused the fountain Hippocrene to spring forth on Mt. 
Helicon, the abode of the Muses; hence he was considered the horse of poets. 



698 AMERICAN PROSE 



Contemporary Criticism 

"The economical details and calculations in this book [Walden] are more 
curious than useful; for the author's life in the woods was on too narrow a scale 
to find imitators. But in describing his hermitage and his forest life, he says so 
many pithy and brilliant things, and offers so many piquant, and, we may add, so 
many just, comments on society as it is, that his book is well worth the reading, 
both for its actual contents and its suggestive capacity." — The North American 
Review, October, 1854. 

" Cape Cod is photographed at last, for Thoreau has been there. Day by day 
with his stout pedestrian shoes, he plodded along that level beach, — the eternal 
ocean on one side, and human existence reduced to its simplest elements on the 
other, — and he pitilessly weighing each. His mental processes never impress one 
with opulence and luxuriance, but rather with a certain sublime tenacity, which 
extracts nutriment from the most barren soil. He is therefore admirably matched 

against Cape Cod In his stern realism, the author employs what he himself 

calls 'Panurgic' plainness of speech, and deals with the horrors of the sea-shore 
as composedly as with its pearls. His descriptions of the memorials of shipwrecks, 
for instance, would be simply repulsive, but that his very dryness has a 

sort of disinfectant quality Everything which Thoreau wrote has this 

peculiar value, that no other observing powers were like his; no one else so labori- 
ously verified and exhausted the facts; and no other mind rose from them, at will, 
into so subtile an air of meditation." — The Atlantic Monthly, March, 1865. 

"The prose of Thoreau is daily winning recognition as possessing some of the 
very highest qualities of thought and utterance, in a degree scarcely rivalled in 
contemporary literature. In spite of whim and frequent over-refining, and the 
entire omission of many important aspects of human life, these wondrous merits 

exercise their charm Emerson never wilfully leaves a point unguarded, 

never allows himself to be caught in undress. Thoreau spurns this punctiliousness, 
and thus impairs his average execution; while for the same reason he attains, in 
favored moments, a diction more flowing and a more lyric strain than his teacher 
ever allows himself, at least in prose. He also secures, through this daring, the 
occasional expression of more delicate as well as more fantastic thoughts." — The 
Atlantic Monthly, October, 1865. 

"He was not a strong thinker, but a sensitive feeler. Yet his mind strikes 
us as cold and wintry in its purity. A light snow has fallen everywhere where he 
seems to come on the track of the shier sensations that would elsewhere leave 

no trace He took nature as the mountain-path to an ideal world. If the 

path wind a good deal, if he record too faithfully every trip over a root, if he botanize 
somewhat wearisomely, he gives us now and then superb outlooks from some jutting 
crag, and brings us out at last into an illimitable ether, where the breathing is not 
difficult for those who have any true touch of the climbing spirit. His shanty-life 
was a mere impossibility, so far as his own conception of it goes, as an entire inde- 
pendency of mankind. The tub of Diogenes had a sounder bottom. Thoreau's 
experiment actually presupposed all that complicated civilization which it theo- 
retically abjured. He squatted on another man's land; he borrows an axe; his 
boards, his nails, his bricks, his mortar, his books, his lamp, his fish-hooks, his 



NOTES 699 

plough, his hoe, all turn state's evidence against him as an accomplice in the sin 
of that artificial civilization which rendered it possible that such a person as Henry 
D. Thoreau should exist at all. Magnis tamen excidit ausis. His aim was a noble 
and a useful one, in the direction of 'plain living and high thinking.' It was a 
practical sermon on Emerson's text that 'things are in the saddle and ride man- 
kind,' an attempt to solve Carlyle's problem of 'lessening your denominator.' His 
whole life was a rebuke of the waste and aimlessness of our American luxury, which 
is an abject enslavement to tawdry upholstery." — J. R. Lowell, in The North 
American Review, October, 1865. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

(498) The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table. Nos. IV and V. The 
text is from the 1858 edition. 

(499) Of course it wasn't Proserpina: in No. Ill, when it was published in 
The Atlantic Monthly, January, 1858, Holmes had written that Prosperpina cut the 
lock from Dido's head and released her soul from the body. \ used herself ungen- 
teelly: Dido had yielded to lawless love for /Eneas, and stabbed herself when he 
forsook her. ^Madame d'Enjer: "Mistress of the Lower World," Proserpina. 
1f bathycolpian: "deep-bosomed." If " Oceanic Miscellany" ': The Atlantic Monthly, 
in which the Autocrat first appeared. 

(502) "Soles .... possunt": " Suns may sink and rise again." — Catullusv.4. 
1f "trailing clouds of glory:": Wordsworth's "Ode on the Intimations of Immor- 
tality," V, 7. \ohne phosphor-geruch: "without phosphorus smell." 

(5°3) pugil: as much as can be taken up between the thumb and two fingers; 
a pinch. If rappee: a kind of snuff. 1f tonka-bean: it has an agreeable smell, and is 
used to scent snuff. 1f Lundy-Foot: a kind of snuff. If straw cradle: the covering 
of the wine bottle. 1f one among you: evidently Holmes; the whole passage is a 
reminiscence of his residence in Paris as a medical student. 

(504) Byron's line: 

it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound, 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound. 

— Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, IV. xxiii. 

If Damiens: he tried to kill the French king in 1757, and was punished by being 
torn apart by four horses. If Indians are tomahawking: at the capture of Fort 
William Henry by Montcalm, in 1757, his Indian allies butchered the garrison; 
see Cooper's Last of the Mohicans. If celd va sans dire: "that goes without 
saying." 

(505) stillicidium: "falling drop by drop." If " Quoiqu' elle . . . . la machine": 
"although it is very solidly put together, the machine must not be used roughly.*' 

(507) polyphlcesbcean: "loud-roaring." 

(509) Hogarth's: Hogarth (1607-1764) was an English pictorial satirist. 

(510) "Desiderii .... Elzevirii": "Colloquies of Desiderius Erasmus. 
Amsterdam. Press of Louis Elzevir." 



700 



AMERICAN PROSE 



(511) two words: "Our Father." If prayer of Agur: Prov. 30:8. % "Con- 
cilium Tridenlinum ": the Council of Trent, a famous council of the Roman Catholic 
Church, in the sixteenth century, which condemned the doctrines of the Reformation. 

(513) Bob Logic: a character in Tom and Jerry (1821). If Liston: an 
English actor (1776-1846). 

(515) " Hunc lapidem .... mosrentes": "This stone his mourning associates 
set up." If arcus senilis: a whitish ring in the eyes of old people. 

(518) Mfiviv aeiSe ©ea: "The wrath sing, goddess"; the opening words of 
the Iliad. If McFingal: a poem on the Tories of the American Revolution, by 
John Trumbull. If one beautiful hymn: by Addison. 

(520) Farina: a personification of the Latin term for corn. 

(521) maeslros: "masters". If virtuoso: collector of works of art, etc. 

(522) Pedro Klauss, Tyroli, fecit: "Pedro Klauss of Tyrol made it." %"Nox 
erat, .... jurabas mea": "It was night, and the moon was shining in the clear 
sky among the lesser stars, whilst thou, about to violate the divinity of the great 
gods, wert swearing faith to me in my own words." — Horace, Epodes, xv. 

(523) devalise: "robbed." \ sergent-de-ville: "city sergeant," policeman. 
If Vogue la galere: " Come what may." If Voleur: "thief." % Don't: i.e., Don't 
accuse me of being a thief too, and stealing the story. "ff liberal shepherds: 
from Hamlet, Act IV, scene vii, 1. 172; "liberal" is used in the sense of "free and 
easy" in the use of words. 

(524) Marsyas: he was flayed alive by Apollo for presuming to compete with 
him in music. If Bartholinus: a Danish physician and writer of the early seven- 
teenth century. % in terrorem: "for the terror" of evil-doers. If as it did in 
Christiana's: Pilgrim's Progress, Second Part. If Hamlet's remark to Horatio: 

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 

— Hamlet, Act I, scene v, 11. 166, 167. 

% cutis humana: "human skin." 

(525) Machiavellian astuteness: Machiavelli (1469-1527), an Italian states- 
man, in his Prince shows wonderful acuteness in the art of handling men. ^ Ex 
pede Herculem: "From his foot, Hercules"; i.e., from the foot the size and strength 
of the whole body may be correctly inferred. 1f Ex ungue .... pronepotes: 
"From the nail of the little toe, Hercules, his father, mother, grandfathers and 
great-grandfathers, sons, grandsons and great-grandsons." If fibs wov o~ru : "Give 
me a place where I may stand," and I will move the world; a saying attributed to 
Archimedes, a Greek mathematician of the third century B.C., who discovered the 
principle of the lever. 1f the "0" revealed Giotto: Giotto, the Italian painter (1276- 
I 337), once made his identity known, it is said, by drawing a perfect circle with 
one sweep of the hand. If Stratford-atte-Bowe-taught Anglais: cf. Chaucer's Canter- 
bury Tales, "Prologue," 11. 124-26: 

And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly, 
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, 
For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe. 



NOTES 701 

(526) Priscian's: Priscian was a celebrated Latin grammarian, living about 
500 a.d. H captatores verborum: "capturers of words." H scarabaus grammaticus: 
"grammatical beetle." 

(53 2 ) ceolipile: a vessel with projecting bent tubes through which steam is 
forced from within, causing the vessel to revolve. 1f Peccavi: "I have sinned." 

(533) "the boys": cf. Holmes's poem, "The Boys," written for the thirtieth 
reunion of his college class, in 1859. 11 Byron about Santa Croce: after speaking 
of the fact that Michelangelo, Alfieri, Galileo, and Machiavelli are buried in the 
church of Santa Croce, in Florence, Byron continues (Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, 
IV.lv): 

These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
Might furnish forth creation. 



Contemporary Criticism 

"It [The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table] is a genuine book of its kind, and 
we predict for Mr. Holmes a large share of favor from readers on this side of the 

Atlantic All these characters, it is evident from the very appellations of 

some of them, are of true native growth. We have nothing exactly answering to 
them on our side of the water, and this, with the decidedly national flavor of the 
conversations generally, strongly commends itself to our tastes. The author appears 
to be a scholar and a traveller, but he has not sunk the Yankee in the cosmopolitan, 
and we like his book all the better for it; while his thoughts have depth and breadth 
enough to recommend themselves to cultivated men, whether of the Old or New 
World." — The Economist, as reprinted in Littell's Living Age, March 5, 1859. 

"We expected a great deal from Dr. Holmes; we thought he had in him the 
makings of the best magazinist in the country; but we honestly confess we were 
astonished. We remembered the proverb, ' 'Tis the pace that kills,' and could 
scarce believe that such a two-forty gait could be kept up through a twelvemonth. 
Such wind and bottom were unprecedented. But this was Eclipse himself; and 
he came in as fresh as a May morning, ready at a month's end for another year's 
run. And it was not merely the perennial vivacity, the fun shading down to serious- 
ness, and the seriousness up to fun, in perpetual and charming vicissitude; — here 
was the man of culture, of scientific training, the man who had thought as well as felt, 
and who had fixed purposes and sacred convictions. .... Dr. Holmes has proved 
his title to be a wit in the earlier and higher sense of the word, when it meant a 
man of genius, a player upon thoughts rather than words. The variety, freshness, 
and strength which he has lent to our pages during the last three years seem to 
demand of us that we should add our expression of admiration to that which his 
countrymen have been so eager and unanimous in rendering."- — The Atlantic 
Monthly, April, 1861. 

"Who has not read Elsie Venner . . . . ? It is superfluous for us to write a 
word about its perfect characterization, its unsurpassed traits of wit and veins of 
humor, and its gushes of such tenderness and pathos as show that the author 
sympathizes with his dramatis personae as heartily as if they were of his own house-, 
hold But over all and above all, the book has a value almost unapproached 



702 AMERICAN PROSE 



in its giving us a wise physician's views as to certain physico-moral and physico- 
religious states, phenomena, and questions." — The North American Review, April, 
1861. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 

(536) Leaves from My Journal in Italy and Elsewhere. First division. 
The text is from the 1864 edition. Lowell went to Europe in 185 1, and the Leaves 
is based on his experiences during the tour. If Lucretius made this discovery: De 
Rerum Natura ii. 1, 2: "Sweet it is when the winds are agitating the surface of 
the vast sea, from the land to watch the great labor of another." If Petrarch: the 
Italian poet (1304-74), the perfecter of the Italian love sonnet. If choragus: leader 
of the choir. \ the piper of Hamelin: see Browning's poem, "The Pied Piper of 
Hamelin." U Chateaubriand: a French writer (1768-1848) of a sentimental cast. 
If "sea bounding .... his rider": Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, III. ii. 

(537) nequidnimis: "nothing too much." 1f W. M. T. and A. 11. C: William 
M. Thackeray and Arthur H. Clough; both were shipmates of Lowell on his return 
to America in 1852. 

(538) Calderon: the Spanish dramatist and poet (1600-81); his earlier works 
abound in the "conceits" and extravagances of style which were then popular. 
1f Moore: the Irish poet (1779-1852). \ Gradus ad Pamassum: "Steps to Par- 
nassus." ^thesaurus: "treasure-house." 1f did the flying-fish : in his poem, "The 
Flying-Fish." 

(539) projection: the transmuting of a baser metal into gold or silver. 1J poured 
from the frozen loins of the populous North: adapted from Paradise Lost, I; 351, 352: 

A multitude, like which the populous North 
Pour'd never from her frozen loyns. 

1f Chapman: an Elizabethan poet and dramatist. 1f levee: a morning reception; 
originally, at the French court, a reception by the king at his "rising" from bed— 
which is the sense here. 

(540) elder Edda: the earliest Scandinavian poems, some of them belonging 
to the ninth century. 1f Minnesingers: German love poets of the twelfth and 
thirteenth centuries. 1f once a year: on All Souls' Day, November 2. If San 
Miniato's: San Miniato is an old church near Florence. 

(541) Montaigne in his tower: Montaigne (1533-92), the famous French essay- 
ist, had for his study a room at the top of a tower on his country estate; see Pater's 

Gaston de Latour, section IV. If Dire contredire: "To say, to re-say, and 

to contradict myself." \montagna bruna: see Dante's Divina Commedia, "In- 
ferno," XXVI, in which is described a voyage of Ulysses into strange seas, where 
he sees a "mountain dark through the distance" and is wrecked by a whirlwind 
that blows from it. If St. Saga: a humorous personification and canonization of 
Scandinavian sagas, or legends. If Faustus: a German astrologer and magician 
of the early sixteenth century, who was reputed to have sold himself to the Devil. 
If Don Juan: a partly legendary Spanish character of the fourteenth century, famous 
for his libertinism. If Tanhaiiser: a German poet of the thirteenth century; a German 
ballad of the sixteenth century tells of his residence with the goddess of love in the 
Venus-berg. 1f Gallic cock-crow of universal enlightenment; the rationalistic French 



NOTES 703 

thinkers of the eighteenth century prided themselves on banishing all superstition. 
For the reference to the popular superstition that ghosts vanished at dawn, cf. 
A Midsummer-Night's Dream, Act III, scene ii, 11. 380-82: 

And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger; 

At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there 

Troop home to churchyards. 

1f Outre-Mer: "Beyond Sea." If the old Scandinavian snake: a monster of Norse 
mythology, who holds his tail in his mouth and encircles the earth. ^f made ducks 
and drakes of: thrown away; "ducks and drakes" is a fanciful expression for skip- 
ping stones on the surface of water. % Professor Owen: Richard Owen, a contem- 
porary paleontologist; a few sentences below he is playfully called Monkbarns, 
after the antiquary in Scott's Antiquary. If stretch many a rood: cf. the description 
of Satan in Paradise Lost, I. 196, "Lay floating many a rood." 1f glass: the glass 
front of the tank in the aquarium. 

(542) phoca = seal. If eocene .... and tertiary: geological terms referring to 
the earliest ages of the earth. If plesiosaur: an extinct sea-monster of prehistoric 
time. \ Hakluyt and Purchas: English authors of the sixteenth and early seven- 
teenth centuries, who published collections of voyagers' tales. If Martin: an English 
traveler, author of a book, The Western Islands of Scotland (1703). ^f hortus siccus: 
"dry garden," a collection of dried plants. If Job Hortop: a gunner on Hawkins' 
third voyage, 1567-68; in his narrative, as rewritten by Hakluyt, he says: "When 
we came in the height [ = latitude] of Bermuda, we discovered a monster in the sea, 
who shewed himselfe three times unto us from the middle upwards, in which parts 
hee was proportioned like a man, of the complection of a Mulatto or tawny Indian. 
The Generall did commaund one of his clearks to put it in writing, and hee certified 
the King and his Nobles thereof." — Hakluyt's Voyages, III, 493, edition of 1600. 
^[ Webster, in his "Witchcraft": John Webster, an English clergyman, published 
The Displaying of Supposed Witchcraft in 1677. ^f St. Antony: a monk of the 
thirteenth century, who, it is said, once preached to an attentive school of fishes. 
If Sir John Hawkins: an English voyager and admiral of the sixteenth century. 

(543) Henry Hawkes: a merchant who lived five years in Mexico and described 
the country in Hakluyt's English Voyages; he says: "The Spanyards have notice 

of seven cities They have used and use dayly much diligence in seeking of 

them, but they cannot find any one of them. They say that the witchcraft of the 
Indians is such, that when they come by these townes they cast a mist upon them, 
so that they cannot see them." — Hakluyt Society's Publications, Extra Series, 
Vol. IX. If that which Thor strove to drain: the Norse god, Thor, in a drinking- 
match tried in vain to drink dry a long horn, which proved to be connected with 
the sea. If magical foundation-stones of a Tempest: Shakspere is supposed to have 
got some hints for The Tempest from an account of a shipwreck in the Bermudas. 
1 Marco Polo: a Venetian traveler (1254-1324) to the Far East, including China. 
1f Milton: Comus, 11. 207-9. If Bruce 's Abyssinian kings: James Bruce (1730-94), 
a Scotch traveler, explored Abyssinia. 1f Prester John: a mythical Christian 
emperor, who was believed to have a great empire in Asia, or, according to another 
account, in Abyssinia; see The Voiage and Travaile of Sir John Maundeville, Kt., 
chapter 27. 1f Vulgar Errors: the English form of the title of a work by Sir Thomas 



704 AMERICAN PROSE 



Browne (1605-82), in which he exploded, delightfully, many delightful errors. 
1f nidificated = made nests, \monopodes: "In that Contree ben folk, that han but 
o [=one] foot: .... and the foot is so large that it schadewethe alle the Body 
azen [ = against] the Sonne, whanne thei wole lye and reste hem." — The Voiage 
and Travaile of Sir John Maundeville, Kt., chapter 14. If A cephali: men without 
heads; Herodotus mentions them in his History iv. 191. If Roc: see The Arabian 
Nights, "Story of Sinbad," etc. 

(544) tails of the men of Kent: Browne, in Vulgar Errors, Book IV, chapter 10, 
gives two popular explanations for the existence of the tails — one, that the Kentish 
men, while pagans, tied fishtails to the monks who came to convert them; the 
other, that they cut off the tail of the horse of St. Thomas of Canterbury. If Orellana: 
a Spanish soldier (1490-1546), who first explored the Amazon River; he named it 
for a race of female warriors whom he said he saw in that region. If those who have 
robbed us, etc.: cf. Othello, Act III, scene iii, 11. 159-61: 

But he that filches from me my good name 

Robs me of that which not enriches him 

And makes me poor indeed! 

(544) Abraham Lincoln. The text is from The North American Review, 
January, 1864, where the article bears the title, "The President's Message, Decem- 
ber, 1863," with a running title, "The President's Policy." This form of the essay 
has special interest, as showing Lowell's view of Lincoln before he had been canon- 
ized by martyrdom. A few passages on contemporary politics have been omitted. 
If South Carolina: it seceded on December 20, i860; ten more states seceded early 
in the next year. 

(546) A President: James Buchanan. If a party .... with long training in 
opposition: the Republican party was not formed until 1854, but it included many 
Free-Soilers and Abolitionists who had long opposed the party in power. 

(547) Cockneyism: characteristics of the inhabitants of London. If epicedium 
= funeral song. 1f a chief magistrate without experience and without reputation: at 
the time of his election to the presidency Lincoln had held no public offices except 
those of state legislator and member of Congress, the latter for two years only; 
what reputation he had was due chiefly to his debates with Stephen A. Douglas, in 
1858, when both were candidates for the United States senatorship from Illinois. 

(548) four millions of people: the slaves. 1f unwilling liberators: at the out- 
break of the war relatively few Northerners were in favor of emancipation. 

(550) a communicant with the church of Laodicea: i.e., lukewarm; cf. Rev. 
3:14-16: "And unto the angel of the church of the Laodiceans write: .... So 
then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of 
my mouth." 

(551) Mazarin's: Cardinal Mazarin (1602-61) was a French statesman of 
Sicilian birth, who continued the policies of Richelieu. \ Le temps et moi: "The 
time and I." \ Semper nocuit differre paratis: " It is always harmful to delay when 
things are ready." 

(552) Henry IV. : king of France, 1589-1610; at first a leader of the Hugue- 
nots, he became a Roman Catholic in 1593. 1f Bearnois: Henry was a native of 
Beam, a province of France. 1f soi-disant: "so-called." If Sancho Panza: the 



NOTES 705 

squire of Don Quixote, in Cervantes' romance of that title; he finally becomes 
governor of a city. 

(553) full of wise saws, etc: As You Like It, Act II, scene vii, 1. 156. 1f Men- 
seance: "civility." If Sphinx: in ancient Thebes a monster, half lion and half 
woman, lay by the highway and propounded a riddle to passers-by; those who 
failed to guess the riddle were killed. 

(554) Atropos: one of the Fates, who cut the thread of human life. If king 
of Ithaca: Odysseus, or Ulysses, reputed the shrewdest of the Greeks at the siege of 
Troy. If Antonio: a singular slip (corrected in the later editions) for Bassanio; 
see The Merchant of Venice, Act III, scene ii. 1f childish simplicity of the solution: 
the Sphinx asked, "What animal in the morning goes on four feet, at noon on two, 
and at evening on three?" (Edipus solved the riddle by replying, "Man, who 
creeps in childhood, walks in middle life, and uses a staff in old age." 

(555) the right of making war against any foreign power: this right is expressly 
denied the separate states by the Constitution. If without any arbiter: the defenders 
of state sovereignty denied that the Supreme Court was such an arbiter; see 
Calhoun's speech, p. 596, the paragraph beginning, "That the Government claims." 

(557) Pontoppidan: a Danish naturalist (1698-17 64), who in his Natural 
History of Norway describes the kraken, the sea-serpent, and other marvels. % their 
cardinal principle was disunion: cf . Lowell's own Biglow Papers, No. 1 : 

Ef I'd my way I hed ruther 

We should go to work an' part, 
They take one way, we take t'other, 

Guess it wouldn't break my heart. 

If the Kansas outrages: when Kansas was opened as a territory, in 1854, a bloody 
struggle began between settlers favoring slavery and those opposed to it. 

(558) the stars in their courses, etc.: Judg. 5:20. If as the West Saxons did: 
Bede, in his Ecclesiastical History of the English Nation, Book II, chapter 13, tells a 
story like this, but of the Northumbrians, not the West Saxons. 

(560) Purchase of Louisiana: this vast tract, stretching from the Gulf of 
Mexico to British North America, and from the Mississippi to the Rocky Mountains, 
was bought of France in 1803, for $15,000,000. If Embargo: in retaliation for inter- 
ference with neutral trade during the Napoleonic wars, the United States in 1808 
placed an embargo on all merchant vessels, domestic or foreign, in American ports, 
forbidding them to leave except by special permission from the President. If Removal 
of the Deposits: President Andrew Jackson, in the cburse of his fight against the 
United States Bank, in 1833 ordered the deposits in the bank to be removed to 
certain local banks. ^Annexation of Texas: the republic of Texas, which had freed 
itself from Mexico in 1836, was annexed to the United States, at its own request, 
in 1845. ^ those dastards: "I saw and recognized the shade of him who made, 
through cowardice, the great refusal. At once I understood, and was certain, that 
this was the sect of the caitiffs displeasing to God and to his enemies." — Dante's 
Divina Commedia, "Inferno," III, S9-63. 

(561) guerilleros: "guerrillas," men engaged in irregular warfare; not regular 
soldiers. If Act of Settlement: an act of Parliament, in 1701, settling the succession 
to the English throne. \ vis inertice: "force of inertia." 



706 AMERICAN PROSE 



(562) the President's proclamation: the Emancipation Proclamation of January 
1, 1863. % salus populi suprema lex: "the safety of the people is the supreme law." 

(563) Guy Fawkes: the leader in the famous Gunpowder Plot to blow up 
Parliament, on November 5, 1605. If Magna Charta: the "Great Charter" of 
English liberty, granted by King John in 1215. If proclamation of amnesty: issued 
December 8, 1863; with certain exceptions, it promised "full pardon" for having 
"participated in the existing rebellion." 

(564) our future Poland: by the treaty of Vienna, in 1814, Russian Poland 
was made a constitutional monarchy subject to the Czar, but after the rebellion 
of the Poles, 1830, the kingdom became a mere province of Russia. If without 
book: without consulting authorities, and hence inaccurately. If "Girar la 
Liberia .... non mai": "I saw Liberty go around, and, joyful, kiss every ruin, 
and say, 'Ruins, yes, but servitude never.'" 

(564) Carlyle. The text is from The North American Review, April, 1866. 

(565) divine Cowley: Abraham Cowley (1618-67) had a high reputation as a 
poet during his lifetime, but was soon almost forgotten. If Ponius: a country of 
Asia Minor, bordering on the Black Sea, to which the poet Ovid was exiled. 
1f" British Poets": a collection of the poets, great and small, in many volumes, 
more respected than read. If Pepys: his diary (1660-69) gives entertaining 
pictures of the age. % Tithonus: he was loved by Eos, goddess of the dawn, who 
secured immortality for him, but forgot to ask for perpetual youth. If Hemera: 
the Greek word for "day." ^Glaucus: a fisherman, who, happening to eat of a 
certain plant, had an irresistible desire to leap into the water, where he became 
a minor sea-god. 

(566) Churchill: an English satiric poet (1731-64). If the Chalmers col- 
umbarium: a collection of the British poets, in twenty-one volumes, edited by 
Alexander Chalmers. A columbarium is literally a sepulcher, with niches for 
burial urns. If Cavalcanti: a minor Italian poet of the thirteenth century. If si 
absit prudentia: "if sagacity be absent." 

(568) Kremlin: the citadel of Moscow, with many towers. 

(570) Den Gegenstand fest zu hallen: "Hold fast to the object." If geognosy: 
knowledge of the structure of the earth. If Boswell: the biographer of Samuel 
Johnson. 

(571) the Rev. Dr. Sterne: the author of the whimsical novel, Tristram Shandy. 
% Jean Paul: the pseudonym of Jean Paul Friedrich Richter (1763-1825), a German 
writer. 

(572) Heine: a German poet (1797-1856) of Jewish descent. 1f the bow of 
Philoctetes: Philoctetes inherited the bow and poisoned arrows of Heracles, without 
which Troy could not be taken. % Rabelais: a French humorist and satirist (1495- 
ISS3); his chief works are Gargantua and Pantagruel. ^Cervantes: the Spanish 
poet and novelist (1547-1616), author of Don Quixote. 

(574) Gotz of the Iron Hand: a name given to Gotz von Berlichingen, an old 
German baron, of fierce nature, whose right hand had been replaced by an iron one; 
he is the subject of a play by Goethe. If Faustrecht: "fist-right," the law of force. 
If Cromwell: Carlyle had edited his speeches and letters, and acquitted him of the 
charge of selfish ambition. % Prynne: a Presbyterian lawyer, whose ears were 



NOTES 707 

cropped by order of the Star Chamber under Charles I; being expelled from Parlia- 
ment, at the time of Pride's Purge in 1648, he took sides with the king, and was 
thrown into prison under the Puritan Commonwealth, f Friedrich: Frederick 
the Great of Prussia, \dummes Zeug: "stupid stuff." \Crcbillon fils: a French 
novelist, contemporary with Frederick. 

(575) Ecclefechan: an error (corrected in the later editions) for Kirkcaldy; 
Ecclefechan was Carlyle's birthplace, f Dr. Francia: dictator of Paraguay, 1817- 
40; Carlyle's article on him appeared in The Foreign Quarterly Review in 1843. 
If a tree: the gallows-tree. If Jesuits' bark: Peruvian bark, or quinine; called 
Jesuits' bark because its virtues were made known to Europe by Jesuit missionaries 
to South America. % Berserkers: heroes of Teutonic mythology, who fought naked, 
frenzied with liquor, and heedless of wounds. U Lynch: Charles Lynch, a Virginia 
colonel, who supported the Revolution and maintained order in his region by sum- 
mary punishments of Tories and other offenders. 

(576) Montaigne is but Ecclesiastes: the reference is to the spirit of skepticism 
and world-weariness in both, as expressed in Eccles. 1 : 2, "Vanity of vanities, .... 
all is vanity." U Voltaire .... Lucian: both were mocking satirists of popular 
religion, the former in France in the eighteenth century, the latter in Greece and 
other parts of the Roman Empire in the second century. 

(577) Saul seeking his father's asses, etc.: I Sam. 9. If "fair , large ears": 
Titania's words to Bottom, after his head had been changed to an ass's head, in 
A Midsummer-Night' 1 s Dream, Act IV, scene i, 1. 4. If Nee deus, nee lupus, sed homo: 
"Not a god nor a wolf but a man." 

(578) Fritziad: an epic having Frederick for hero. If Seven Years War: a 
war waged successfully by Frederick in 1756-63, against several nations, including 
France, Austria, and Russia. 

(580) that unmatchable scene in Antony and Cleopatra: Act II, scene vii. 

(581) "Life is a tale," etc.: Macbeth, Act V, scene v, 11. 26-28. If Don 
Belianises: Don Belianis was a hero in a Spanish romance (1547), a continua- 
tion of Amadis of Gaul. 

(582) Dr. Busby: an English schoolmaster of the seventeenth century, famous 
for his use of the rod. 1f Aristophanes: the foremost Greek comic poet (450 ?-38o ? 
B.C.); an aristocrat and conservative, he ridiculed demagogues in his comedies, as 
in The Knights. If West-End: the aristocratic section of London. ^"Pelham": a 
novel (1828) by Bulwer; its subtitle is The Adventures of a Gentleman. 1f Wishart: 
a Scotch religious reformer, burned at the stake in 1546. % Brown: probably 
Robert Brown (i55o?-i633?), the founder of the Brownists, a sect from which 
developed the Independents, or Congregationalists. ^ Edward Irving: an early 
friend of Carlyle; he became a popular preacher of sensational doctrines. 

(583) "the wisest of this generation" : Goethe; so styled by Carlyle in Sartor 
Resartus, Book I, chapter 10. If Draco: he formulated the first code of laws for 
Athens, in the seventh century B.C., and, according to tradition, affixed the death 
penalty to nearly all offenses. 

(584) jPAaros= lighthouse. If a beautiful picture of an old king: in Pippa 
Passes, Part III. If the purse of Fortunatus: it could never be emptied. 1f elixir vilae: 
"elixir of life," a drink giving immortality, ^nisi dignus vindice nodus: "unless 



708 AMERICAN PROSE 



the difficulty is one that deserves a liberator." If Charlemagne: king of the Franks, 
768-814; he finally united under his sway all the races of continental Germany, 
and as in a sense a restorer of the power of the Caesars he was crowned " Emperor 
of the Romans" at Rome in 800. If the Siegfried of Anarchy: i.e., the slayer of 
anarchy, as Siegfried, the hero of the Niebelungenlied (the great German epic of 
the Middle Ages), slays the dragon. If that empire: the Roman Empire. 

(585) the war which a great people was waging: the American Civil War. 
'"No war ever raging in my time,' he said, .... 'was to me more profoundly 
foolish-looking.' .... He spoke of it scornfully as 'a smoky chimney which had 
taken fire.'" — Froude's Thomas Carlyle, Vol. IV, p. 209. % with the eyes of a valet: 
the allusion is to the proverb, "No man is a hero to his valet." 

(587) Turenne: a great French general (1611-75), who won victories over 
the Germans and Spaniards. 1f H of 'rath: "Court Councillor," a title of honor. 

Contemporary Criticism 

" Containing the deliberate words of perhaps the best of living English critics — 
his final judgments on many of the' great names of literature; judgments which 
are the result of long and wide study and reading, of marvellous acuteness of sight 
and delicacy of sympathy; containing a poet's opinion of other poets, a wit's 
opinion of other wits; .... this book of Mr. Lowell's [Among My Books] is one 
of the best gifts that for many years has come to the world of English literature." 
— The Nation, April 21, 1870. 

"On the whole, we think this volume [My Study Windows] may with proba- 
bility be expected even to increase its author's great reputation as one of the best 
of critics and one of the wittiest of men. We still mingle with our gratitude, however, 
some grumbling that there should be so much too much wit and point, and some 
supersubtleties of interpretation." — The Nation, February 23, 187 1. 

"Lowell is peculiarly adapted to the form of literature, semi-critical, semi- 
creative, in which he has recently distinguished himself The cultivated 

American public should thank one who has amused and diverted it as well as he 
has done for the solid instruction which this volume [Among My Books, Second 
Series] conveys in a style at once scholarly, fresh, and refined."- — The Catholic 
World, April, 1876. 

"The other leading articles in both of Mr. Lowell's volumes [Among My Books, 
First and Second Series], notably those on Dryden, Shakespeare, Lessing, Words- 
worth, and Milton, exhibit, with some difference of degree perhaps, the same 
conscientious thoroughness, the same minutest accuracy of observation, the same 
elegance and force of language, the same mastery of esthetic principles, and what 
is equally essential to all good criticism, a healthful moral tone, such as is born 
only of sound principles and genuine conviction."— The International Review, 
January, 1877. 

"As a critic of belles letlres he has scarcely any living equal; and if we are 
allowed — as surely we should be — to give more marks for sanity than for any other 
quality of criticism, he ranks higher, perhaps, than any rival. Great delicacy of 
perception and a discriminative faculty, 'piercing, even to the dividing asunder of 
soul and spirit,' in a piece of literary work, are accompanied, in Mr. Lowell's case, 



NOTES 709 

by a most commendable freedom from crotchet and affectation, and a consistent 
sobriety of judgment."- — H. D. Traill, in The Fortnightly Review, July 1, 1885. 

"With delicate powers of appreciation and discrimination, with a sensitive 
instinct for comparative analysis, he was blessed with a singularly retentive memory. 
Abounding in rich illustration and apposite quotation, he evidently had seldom to 
hunt up a reference. Consequently his thoughts found lucid expression in a bright 
and flowing style, and the great attraction of his innumerable articles on miscel- 
laneous subjects is that they are essentially and eminently readable The 

charm that lures you on when you drop casually into one of his literary essays is 
partly in the new and unexpected lights which are continually flashing before you, 
and partly in the humour and the pointed satire which are essential parts of 
himself." — The Edinburgh Review, October, 1891. 

"In genuine catholicity of taste, we venture to think, no English critic of the 
past half century has surpassed Mr. Lowell. Which critic of them all could have 
written two such thoroughly sympathetic studies on men world-wide apart in tem- 
per, as Lowell's essay on Dryden and on Dante? And if his writing lacks the 
chasteness, temperance, and balance of such a master of style as Arnold, we shall 
find ample compensation in his originality, his wealth of imagination, humor, and 
wisdom." — C. T. Winchester, in The Review of Reviews, October, 1891. 

JOHN C. CALHOUN 

(589) Speech on the Slavery Question. The text is from the 1854 edition. 
Several pages near the end of the speech, discussing the case of California, then 
seeking admission as a state, are omitted as being of inferior interest now. The speech 
was read in the United States Senate, March 4, 1850, by a colleague of Mr. Calhoun; 
the latter was present, but was too feeble to speak; he died on March 31. The 
speech was occasioned by one of the great crises in the long struggle over slavery 
in the United States. The war with Mexico (1846-48) resulted in the acquisition 
of vast territories, including New Mexico, Utah, and California. A fierce contest 
at once began over the question whether slavery should be allowed in these regions. 
Henry Clay, the great reconciler, presented in the Senate the so-called Omnibus 
Bill of 1850, a compromise skilfully contrived to win the support of the moderate 
men of all factions: California was to be admitted as a free state; the territories 
of Utah and New Mexico were to be organized without mention of slavery; the 
slave trade was to be prohibited in the District of Columbia; and a more stringent 
fugitive-slave law was to be enacted. The question whether this bill should be 
passed was before the Senate when Mr. Calhoun's speech was read. 

(593) the Missouri compromise: adopted in 1820. If The last of the series: the 
act organizing Oregon as a territory, without slavery, in 1848. 

(594) such duties must necessarily fall mainly on the exporting States: cf . Cal- 
houn's speech of August 5, 1842: "To make good the position taken, I rely on a 
simple fact, which none will deny — that imports are received in exchange for exports. 
.... The real competition, then, is with that industry which produces the articles 
for export, .... and brings back the imported articles in exchange for them; 
and the real complaint is, that those so employed can furnish the market cheaper 
than those who manufacture articles similar to the imported; and what, in truth, 



7io AMERICAN PROSE 



is asked, is, — that this cheaper process of supplying the market should be taxed, by 
imposing high duties on the importation of the articles received in exchange for 
those exported." 

(596) the Government claims . ... the right to decide . ... as to the extent 
of its powers: Daniel Webster, the great exponent and defender of this view, said 
in his reply to Hayne, January 26, 1830: "It is quite plain, that the Constitution 
of the United States confers on the government itself .... this power of deciding 
ultimately and conclusively upon the just extent of its own authority. If this had 
not been done, we should not have advanced a single step beyond the old Confedera- 
tion." He quotes in proof these words of the Constitution: "The judicial power 
shall extend to all cases arising under the Constitution and laws of the United 
States." 

(605) Senator from Kentucky: Henry Clay; his "plan" was the Omnibus 
Bill outlined in the note above. If Wilmot Proviso: so named from David Wilmot, 
of Pennsylvania, who presented it in Congress in 1846; it prohibited slavery in 
new territory acquired by the United States. 

Contemporary Criticism 

"His style is more close and sententious than is common in American speakers, 
his manner energetic, his delivery rapid, his figure tall, his countenance full of 
animation and intelligence. It is the opinion of good judges that he would succeed 
better in the English House of Commons than any other Transatlantic orator; 
but they add that he has somewhat of a metaphysical tendency — which certainly 
never suits that atmosphere." — The Quarterly Review, December, 1840. 

"Mr. Calhoun was calculated to be a leader in whatsoever association of 
political friends he was thrown. He was a man of undoubted genius and of com- 
manding talent. All the country and all the world admit that. His mind was both 
perceptive and vigorous. It was clear, quick, and strong. Sir, the eloquence of 
Mr. Calhoun, or the manner in which he exhibited his sentiments in public bodies, 
was part of his intellectual character. It grew out of the qualities of his mind. It 
was plain, strong, terse, condensed, concise; sometimes impassioned, still always 
severe. Rejecting ornament, not often seeking far for illustration, his power con- 
sisted in the plainness of his propositions, in the closeness of his logic, and in the 
energy and earnestness of his manner. These are the qualities, as I think, which 
have enabled him through such a long course of years to speak often, and yet 
always command attention." — Daniel Webster, in the United States Senate, 
April 1, 1850. 

"The style of this work [Disquisition on Government, etc.] is characteristic, 
and its literary merits are considerable. The author was too much in earnest, and 
too severe a reasoner, both in his speeches and his writings, to pay much attention 

to the mere garb of his thought As a reasoner, Mr. Calhoun was just, 

intrepid, and consistent. He traced out his doctrines to their remotest consequences, 
and shrank from no conclusion that could be legitimately deduced from them, how- 
ever it might shock the received opinions and common judgments of mankind. 
Here, indeed, was his great defect as a thinker. He was partially blinded by his 
own ingenuity and the severity of his logic. The thread of his argument was spun 



NOTES 711 

so fine, that ordinary people lost sight of it altogether; his doctrines were pushed 
so far that they came to be slighted as mere metaphysical refinements." — The 
North American Review, April, 1853. t 

DANIEL WEBSTER 

(608) The Constitution and the Union. The text is from the 1851 
edition. The speech was delivered in the Senate of the United States, March 7, 
1850; for the circumstances, see the note on Mr. Calhoun's speech, page 709. 

(609) "Hear me for my cause": the words of Brutus to the people, at the 
beginning of his speech justifying his killing of Caesar, in Julius Caesar, Act III, 
scene ii, 1. 14. 

(613) "Kindly afectioned": Rom. 12:10. If "Seek another's," etc.: I Cor. 
10:24. ^ "let the oppressed go free": Isa. 58:6. 

(615) "do evil that good may come": Rom. 3:8. 

(623) member from South Carolina: Mr. Calhoun. If fitly joined together: 
Ephes. 4:6. 

(626) rectus in curia: "right in the senate." 

(627) to the Greek Kalends: i.e., forever; there were no Greek Kalends, 
Kalends being a Roman measure of time. \ flagrante hello: "war raging." 

(628) Free Soil party: organized in 1848, to oppose the extension of slavery. 
(630) to their farms or to their merchandise: cf. Matt. 22:5, "one to his farm, 

another to his merchandise." 

(632) slavery cannot exist in ... . New Mexico: yet the territorial legislature 
established slavery, as did also that of Utah. 

(633) tortillas: unleavened cakes. 

(636) a bill .... which . . . . I propose to support : he himself presented 
the bill, June 3, 1850; it improved the legal machinery for the recovery of fugitive 
slaves. 

(640) licentiousness = license, unrestraint. 

(644) arrondissement = political division. If Yellow Stone: a tributary of the 
Missouri, flowing through Wyoming, Montana, and North Dakota, fl Platte: also 
a tributary of the Missouri, flowing through Colorado, Wyoming, and Nebraska. 

(645) treaty of Amiens: by this treaty, in 1802, between England, France, 
and Spain, England gave up nearly all her recent conquests. If King William: 
William of Orange, king of England, 1689-1702, a great opponent of France. 

(647) "Now, the broad shield," etc.: from Pope's translation of the Iliad 
xviii. 701-4, with change of "Thus" to "Now." 

Contemporary Criticism 

"Webster would do credit to any public assembly in the world." — The Edin- 
burgh Review, June, 1829. 

"If they [Webster's speeches] were ascribed to some hitherto unknown author, 
— to some one of the forgotten great men, who moulded the destinies and led the 
councils of Carthage, Tyre, or any other of the famous states of antiquity, .... 
who does not perceive that we should feel, by universal consent, that we were put 



712 AMERICAN PROSE 



in possession of the long-lost productions of a mind, worthy to be classed with the 
strongest and richest of those, which have inherited the admiration of ages?" — 
Edward Everett, in The North American Review, July, 1835. 

"These [Milton and Dryden], with Shakspeare, form the bulk of Mr. Webster's 
poetical reading; and we are by no means sure that it is useful for an orator to be 
familiar with any poet but those which are in the mouths and memories of the 
people; for what avail allusions which it requires notes or an appendix to explain ? 
It is obvious, however, that he has made a careful study of the best English Orators, 

particularly Burke Mr. Webster's taste is not uniformly refined, and he 

is by no means nice in his choice of language: but then his style is not of the feeble 
order which depends upon the collocation of an epithet; it is of granite strength 
and texture; and, if the asperities were polished off, would still present the solidity 
of the rock." — The Quarterly Review, December, 1840. 

"His speeches are models of argumentative power and commanding eloquence, 
and they will be studied in future centuries with an interest not inferior to that 
with which the scholar of the present day .contemplates the precious remains of 
Greek and Roman debate."— The North American Review, October, 1843. 

"The speech [the reply to Hayne] .... will ever be interesting, from the 
profound knowledge it displays, its clear arrangement, the mastery it exhibits of 
all the weapons of dialectics, the broad stamp of nationality it bears, and the wit, 
sarcasm, and splendid and impassioned eloquence, which pervade and vivify, 

without interrupting, the close and rapid march of the argument The 

style of Mr. Webster has great merit, not only for its vigor, clearness, and com- 
pression, but for the broad impress which it bears of the writer's nature. It owes 
nothing to the usual tricks of rhetoric, but seems the unforced utterance of his 
intellect, and is eminently Websterian. There is a granite-like strength in its 
construction. It varies, from the simple force and directness of logical statement, 
to a fierce, trampling energy of manner, with each variation of his mind from calm- 
ness to excitement." — E. P. Whipple, in The North American Review, July, 1844. 

"On the whole, Mr. Webster's eloquence is more remarkable for fervor of 
sentiment and depth of feeling, than for richness of imagery or imaginative, power. 
No one has a greater contempt for the barren shows of oratorical and poetic phrase- 
ology, or for the mere illusions of fancy. If the imagination is ever allowed to take 
wing, .... it is but a momentary flight of the poetic feeling which pervades all 
true eloquence, and the firm tramp of the argument is resumed as steadily as if it 
had not quitted the earth for an instant. Generally, every thing is sacrificed to 
'clearness, force, and earnestness.'" — The North American Review, July, 1852. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

(647) Address at Cooper Institute. The address was delivered in New 
York, February 27, i860, before a large audience, eager to hear the Western lawyer 
who had debated so ably with Stephen A. Douglas, two years before; William Cullen 
Bryant presided, and other distinguished men were on the platform. Mr. Lincoln 
spoke as a representative of the Republican party, which had been organized in 
1854, and presented an argument in support of the central principle of the party, 



NOTES 713 

that the national government had the constitutional right to keep slavery out of 
the territories and should do so. 

(658) John Brown: he had been prominent in the Kansas struggle over 
slavery, and, when he removed to Virginia, formed a purpose to liberate the slaves 
by rousing them to revolt; he and a few others seized the arsenal at Harper's 
Ferry, on October 16, 1859; but the slaves did not rise, and Brown was taken, 
tried, and hanged for treason on December 2. 

(660) slave revolution in Hayti: a bloody revolution of the slaves in Hayti, 
the second largest island in the West Indies, occurred in 1791-93, under the leader- 
ship of Toussaint l'Ouverture, and resulted in the setting up of a black republic. 
If The gunpowder plot: the plot of Guy Fawkes and his conspirators to blow up 
Parliament, on November 5, 1605. If pari passu: "with equal pace," at the same 
rate. 

(661) Orsini's attempt on Louis Napoleon: Felice Orsini, an Italian revolu- 
tionist, attempted to assassinate the French emperor in 1858 by exploding a bomb; 
he was caught and executed. If Helper's Book: a book by a Mr. Helper, urging 
extreme anti-slavery measures; many Southerners thought that it represented the 
attitude- of the Republican party, although the Republican leaders repudiated it. 

(662) the Supreme Court has decided: in the famous Dred Scott case, in 1857; 
the court ruled that the owner of Dred Scott, a Missouri slave, had not forfeited 
his title to him by taking him into free territory. If distinction between dictum and 

decision: "Dictum In law, an opinion of a judge which does not embody 

the resolution or determination of the court, and is made without argument, or full 
consideration of the point, and is not the professed deliberate determination of 
the judge himself." — The Century Dictionary, quoting Chief Justice Folger. 

(666) Address at the Dedication of the Gettysburg National Cemetery. 
The battle at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, was fought on July 1-3 ; it resulted in a 
victory for the North, and proved to be the turning of the tide against the Con- 
federate cause. Some 70,000 or 80,000 men were engaged on each side; the Union 
dead numbered 2,834. On November 19, 1863, a cemetery on a part of the battle- 
field was dedicated, and on this occasion President Lincoln gave the address printed 
in the text; the chief oration was by Edward Everett. 

(667) Second Inaugural Address. Delivered at Washington, March 4, 1865. 

(668) let us judge not, that we be not judged: cf. Matt. 7:1. If "Woe unto the 
world," etc'.: Matt. 18:7. %" The judgments of the Lord," etc.: Ps. 19:9. 

Contemporary Criticism 

" Since the days of Clay and Webster no man has spoken to a larger assemblage 

of the intellect and mental culture of our city Mr. Lincoln is one of nature's 

orators, using his rare powers solely to elucidate and convince, though their inevit- 
able effect is to delight and electrify as well. We present herewith a very full and 
accurate report of this speech [the address at Cooper Institute]; yet the tones, the 
gestures, the kindling eye, and the mirth-provoking look defy the reporter's skill. 
The vast assemblage frequently rang with cheers and shouts of applause, which 
were prolonged and intensified at the close. No man ever before made such an 



714 AMERICAN PROSE 



impression on his first appeal to a New York audience." — The New York Tribune, 
February 28, i860. 

"From the first line to the last, from his premises to his conclusion, he travels 
with a swift, unerring directness which no logician ever excelled, an argument 
complete and full, without the affectation of learning, and without the stiffness 
which usually accompanies dates and details. A single, easy, simple sentence of 
plain Anglo-Saxon words, contains a chapter of history that, in some instances, has 
taken days of labor to verify, and which must have cost the author months of 
investigation to acquire." — Preface by C. C. Nott and Cephas Brainerd, to a pam- 
phlet edition otthe Cooper Institute address, September, i860. 

"There are one or two phrases here [in the Gettysburg address], such as 'dedi- 
cated to the proposition,' which betray a hand untrained in fine writing, and are 
proofs that the composition is Lincoln's own. But, looking to the substance, it 
may be doubted whether any king in Europe would have expressed himself more 
royally than the peasant's son. And, even as to the form, we cannot help remarking 
that simplicity of structure and pregnancy of meaning are the true characteristics 

of the classical style To do him justice, you must read his political writings 

and speeches, looking to the substance and not to the style, which, in the speeches 
especially, is often very uncultivated, though it never falls into the worse faults of 
inflation and rhotomontade so common in American State-papers." — Goldwin 
Smith, in Macmillan's Magazine, as reprinted in Littell's Living Age, March 4, 1865. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 

GENERAL WORKS 



General. — Narrative and Critical History of America, ed. by Justin Winsor, 
8 vols. (Houghton, 1884-89) . A History of the American People (from the beginning 
to 1900), by Woodrow Wilson, 5 vols. (Harper, 1902). History of the United States 
of America (1783-1865), by James Schouler, 6 vols. (Dodd, 1880-99). A History of 
the People of the United States (1783-1861), by J. B. McMaster, 8 vols. (Appleton, 
1883-1913). A History of the United States, by Edward Channing, 3 vols, out 
(1000--1789) (Macmillan, 1905-12). History of the United States (986-1905), by 
T. W. Higginson and William MacDonald (Harper, 1905). A Short History of 
the American People: Vol. 1, The Foundations of American Nationality (1492- 
1789), by E. B. Greene; Vol. 2, The Development of American Nationality (1789- 
1912), by C. R. Fish (American Book Co.; Vol. 1 in preparation; Vol. 2, 1913). 
A Students' History of the United States, by Edward Channing (Macmillan, 1898). 
American History Told by Contemporaries (1492-1900), ed. by A. B. Hart, 4 vols. 
(Macmillan, 1897-1901). Documents Illustrative of American History, 1606- 
1863, ed. by H. W. Preston (Putnam, 1886). Dictionary of United States History, 
1492-1894, by J. F. Jameson (Puritan Publishing Co., 1894). 

Special Periods. — The American Colonies in the Seventeenth Century, by 
H. L. Osgood (Macmillan, 1904). English Colonies in America, by J. A. Doyle, 3 
vols. (Holt, 1882-89) • The Discovery of America, by John Fiske, 2 vols. (Houghton, 
1892). Old Virginia and Her Neighbours, by John Fiske, 2 vols. (Houghton, 1897). 
The Beginnings of New England, by John Fiske (Houghton, 1899). The Dutch 
and Quaker Colonies in America, by John Fiske, 2 vols. (Houghton, 1900). The 
American Revolution, by John Fiske, 2 vols. (Houghton, 1891). The Critical 
Period of American History (1783-89), by John Fiske (Houghton, 1888). A Half 
Century of Conflict (1700-48), by Francis Parkman, 2 vols. (Little, 1892). Mont- 
calm and Wolfe, by Francis Parkman (Little, 1884). History of the United States 
(1850-77), by J. F. Rhodes, 7 vols. (Harper, 1892-1906). The History of the Last 
Quarter-Century in the United States, by E. B. Andrews, 2 vols. (Scribner, 1896). 

SOCIAL CONDITIONS 

Colonial and Revolutionary Times. — The American People, a Study in National 
Psychology, by A. M. Low, 2 vols. (Houghton, 1909, 1911). Men, Women, and 
Manners in Colonial Times, by S. G. Fisher, 2 vols. (Lippincott, 1897). Costumes 
of Colonial Times, by A. M. Earle (Scribner, 1894). Colonial Dames and Good 
Wives, by A. M. Earle (Houghton, 1895). English Culture in Virginia, in Johns 
Hopkins University Studies in Historical and Political Science, Seventh Series 

717 



718 AMERICAN PROSE 



(Baltimore, 1899). Economic and Social History of New England, 16 20-1 789, by 
W. B. Weeden, 2 vols. (Houghton, 1890). New England Two Centuries Ago, 
by J. R. Lowell, in Literary Essays, Vol. 2 (Houghton, 1890; this essay, 1865). 
Customs and Fashions in Old New England, by A. M. Earle (Scribner, 1894). The 
Sabbath in Puritan New England, by A. M. Earle (Scribner, 1891). The Witch- 
craft Delusion in Colonial Connecticut (1647-97), by J. M. Taylor (Grafton Press, 
1908). Witchcraft, by J. R. Lowell, in Literary Essays, Vol. 2 (Houghton, 1890; 
this essay, 1868). Were the Salem Witches Guiltless, and Some Neglected Char- 
acteristics of the New England Puritans, by Barrett Wendell, in Stelligeri (Scribner, 
1893). Colonial Days in Old New York, by A. M. Earle (Scribner, 1896). Papers 
on Historic New York, in the Half Moon Series (Putnam, 1897-98). — For novels 
relating to this period see American Poems, ed. by W. C. Bronson, p. 638 (Univer- 
sity of Chicago Press, 19 12). 

Nineteenth Century.' — The American Mind, by Bliss Perry (Houghton, 191 2). 
The American People, a Study in National Psychology, by A. M. Low, Vol. 2 
(Houghton, 1911). American Ideals, Characters, and Life, by H. W. Mabie (Mac- 
millan, 1913). The American Scene, by Henry James, Jr. (Harper, 1907). A 
Century of Social Betterment, by J. B. McMaster, in the Atlantic Monthly, January, 
1897. Cambridge Thirty Years Ago, by J. R. Lowell, in Literary Essays, Vol. 1 
(Houghton, 1890; this essay, 1854). Old Cambridge, by T. W. Higginson (Mac- 
millan, 1899). A History of the Unitarians in the United States, by J. H. Allen, in 
American Church History Series, Vol. 10 (Christian Literature Co., 1894). Uni- 
tarianism in America, by G. W. Cooke (American Unitarian Association, 1902). 
Transcendentalism in New England, by 0. B. Frothingham (Putnam, 1876). The 
Transcendentalist, by R. W. Emerson, in Works, Centenary Edition, Vol. 1 (Hough- 
ton, 1903; this lecture read in 1842). Historic Notes of Life and Letters in New 
England, by R. W. Emerson, in Works, Centenary Edition, Vol. 10 (Houghton, 
1904; this essay written about 1867, first published in the Atlantic Monthly, 
October, 1883). New England Reformers, by R. W. Emerson, in Essays, Second 
Series (Houghton; this lecture read in 1844) . The Sunny Side of Transcendentalism 
by T. W. Higginson, in Part of a Man's Life (Houghton, 1905; this essay, in the 
Atlantic Monthly, January, 1904). Reminiscences of Brook Farm, by G. P. Brad- 
ford, in the Century Magazine, November, 1892. Brook Farm, by Lindsay Swift 
(Macmillan, 1900). The Old South, Essays Social and Political, by T. N. Page 
(Scribner, 1892). The Peculiarities of the South, by N. S. Shaler, in the North 
American Review, October 1890. 

HISTORY OF LITERATURE 

General. — American Literature, 1607-1885, by C. F. Richardson, 2 vols. 
(Putnam, 1887, 1889; popular edition, 2 vols, in 1). A Literary History of America 
(1600-1900), by Barrett Wendell (Scribner, 1900). American Literature, an His- 
torical Sketch, 1620-1880, by John Nichol (Black, 1882). Geschichte der norda- 
merikanischen Litteratur, von Karl Knortz, 2 vols. (Berlin, 1891). Geschichte der 
nordamerikanischen Litteratur, von Eduard Engel (Leipzig, 1897). A History of 
American Literature, 1607-1865, by W. P. Trent (Appleton, 1903). America in 
Literature, by G. E. Woodberry (Harper, 1903). A Short History of American 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 719 



Literature, by W. C. Bronson (Heath, 1900). Great American Writers, by W. P. 
Trent and John Erskine (Holt, 191 2). Literary Leaders of America, by Richard 
Burton (Scribner, 1903). 

Special Periods, Sections, and Classes of Writers. — A History of American 
Literature, 1607-1765, by M. C. Tyler, 2 vols. (Putnam, 1878; student's edition, 
2 vols, in 1). The Literary History of the American Revolution, 1763-83, by M. C. 
Tyler, 2 vols. (Putnam, 1897; student's edition, 2 vols, in 1). American Writers, 
in Blackwood's Magazine, September, 1824. A Half-Century of American Litera- 
ture (1857-1907), by T. W. Higginson, in Carlyle's Laugh and Other Surprises 
(Houghton, 1909; this essay, in the Atlantic Monthly, November, 1907). American 
Writers of To-Day, by H. C. Vedder (Silver, 1894). A History of American 
Literature since 1870 (really from 1865 to 1900), byF.L.Pattee (Century Co., 19 15). 
Writers of Knickerbocker New York, by H. W. Mabie (Grolier Club, 1912). A 
History of Southern Literature, by Carl Holliday (Neale Publishing Co., 1906). 
Literary Emancipation of the West, by Hamlin Garland, in the Forum, October, 
1893. The Hoosiers, by Meredith Nicholson (Macmillan, 1900). The Literary 
Development of the Pacific Coast, by Herbert Bashford, in the Atlantic Monthly, 
July, 1903. The Early American Novel, by L. D. Loshe (Lemcke, 1907). American 
Novels, in the Quarterly Review, January, 1883. American Fiction, in the Edin- 
burgh Review, January, 1891. The American Historical Novel, by P. L. Ford, in 
the Atlantic Monthly, December, 1897. Leading American Essayists, by W. M. 
Payne (Holt, 19 10). American Orators and Statesmen, in the Quarterly Review, 
December, 1840. American Prose Masters, by W. C. Brownell (Scribner, 1909). 

Special Topics. — Americanism in Literature, by T. W. Higginson, in Atlantic 
Essays (Osgood, 1874; this essay, in the Atlantic Monthly, January, 1870). The 
Spirit of American Literature, by J. A. Macy (Doubleday, 1913). American 
Humour, by Andrew Lang, in Lost Leaders (Paul, 1892). Yankee Humour, in the 
Quarterly Review, January, 1867. The Clergy in American Life and Letters, by 
D. D. Addison (Macmillan, 1900). Cosmopolitan Tendencies in American Litera- 
ture, by W. C. Lawton, in the Sewanee Review, April, 1906. Dialect in Literature, 
by J. W. Riley, in the Forum, December, 1892. The Influence of Democracy on 
Literature, by Edmund Gosse, in Questions at Issue (Heinemann, 1893; Appleton). 
Nature in Early American Literature, by S. L. Whitcomb, in the Sewanee Review, 
Vol. 2, 1893-94. The Development of the Love of Romantic Scenery in America, by 
M. E. Woolley, in the American Historical Review, October, 1897. The National 
Element in Southern Literature, by J. B. Henneman, in the Sewanee Review, 
July, 1903. The Reconstruction of Southern Literary Thought, by H. N. Snyder, 
in the South Atlantic Quarterly, April, 1902. Some Phases of the Supernatural in 
American Literature, by A. H. Quinn, in Publications of the Modern Language 
Association, March, 1910 (Baltimore). 

Biography. — A Critical Dictionary of English Literature and British and 
American Authors, by S. A. Allibone, 4 vols. (Lippincott, 1858-71); Supplement, 
by J. F. Kirk, 2 vols. (Lippincott, 1891). Appleton's Cyclopaedia of American 
Biography, ed. by J. G. Wilson and John Fiske, 6 vols. (Appleton, 1886-89). A 
Dictionary of American Authors, by O. F. Adams (Houghton, 1897; enlarged 
edition, 1905). — American Bookmen, by M. A. DeWolfe Howe (Dodd, 1898). 



720 AMERICAN PROSE 



American Lands and Letters, by D. G. Mitchell, 2 vols. (Scribner, 1897, 1899). 
Authors and Friends, by Mrs. J. T. Fields (Houghton, 1896). Authors at Home, ed. 
by J. L. and J. B. Gilder (Cassell, 1888; reprinted from the Critic). Biographical 
Notes and Personal Sketches, by J. T. Fields (Houghton, 1881). Chapters from a 
Life, by Elizabeth S. Phelps (Houghton, 1896). Cheerful Yesterdays, by T. W. 
Higginson (Houghton, 1898). Homes of American Authors, by G. W. Curtis and 
others (Putnam, 1852). Little Journeys to the Homes of American Authors, by 
Curtis, Hillard, Bryant, and others (Putnam, 1896). Personal Recollections of 
Notable People, by C. K. Tuckerman, 2 vols. (Dodd, 1895). Recollections of a 
Literary Life, by Mary R. Mitford, 3 vols. (London, 1852). Reminiscences, by 
Julia W. Howe (Houghton, 1899). 

Bibliography. — American Authors (1795-1895), a Bibliography of First and 
Notable Editions Chronologically Arranged, with Notes, by P. K. Foley (Pub- 
lishers' Printing Co., 1897). Bibliotheca Americana, a Dictionary of Books Relating 
to America, by Joseph Sabin, 19 vols. (A to Simms) (Sabin, 1868-91). A Catalogue 
of Books Relating to North and South America in the Library of John Carter Brown 
of Providence, R.I., with Notes, by J. R. Bartlett, 6 vols. (Providence, 1865-82). 
Chronological Outlines of American Literature, by S. L. Whitcomb (Macmillan, 
1894). 

COLLECTIONS OF WRITINGS 

A Library of American Literature (1607-1890), ed. by E. C. Stedman and 
E. M. Hutchinson, n vols. (Webster, 1887-90; Benjamin). Cyclopaedia of Amer- 
ican Literature (1607-1855), by E. A. and G. L. Duyckinck, 2 vols. (Scribner, 1855; 
enlarged edition, 1875). Library of Southern Literature, ed. by E. A. Alderman 
and others, 16 vols. (Martin, 1908-1916). The Oxford Book of American Essays 
(Franklin to W. P. Trent), selected by Brander Matthews (Oxford University Press, 
1914). Representative American Orations (1775-1881), ed. by Alexander Johnston, 
3 vols. (Putnam, 1884; re-ed. by J. A. Woodburn, 4 vols., 1896-97; orations often 
abridged). Orations of American Orators (1776-1898), 2 vols. (Co-Operative Pub- 
lication Society, revised edition, 190a). American Public Addresses, ed. by J. V. 
Denny (1775-1896) (Scott, Foresman, 1910). Modern American Speeches (Schurz, 
Grady, Hay, Root), ed. by L. W. Boardman (Longmans, 1913)- 

ETHAN ALLEN 

Edition. A Narrative of Col. Ethan Allen's Captivity (Philadelphia, 1779). 
Biography. C. W. Brown: Ethan Allen (Donohue, 1902). 

WILLIAM BRADFORD 

Editions. Of Plimoth Plantation, from the Original Manuscript (State 
Printers, Boston, Mass., 1898; also in Collections of the Massachusetts Historical 
Society, Fourth Series, Vol. 3). History of Plymouth Plantation, ed. by W. T. 
Davis (Scribner, 1908); ed. by W. C. Ford, 2 vols. (Houghton, 1912). 

WILLIAM BYRD 

Edition. The Writings of Colonel William Byrd, ed. by J. S. Bassett (Double- 
day, 1901). 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 721 



JOHN C. CALHOUN 

Edition. Works, ed. by R. K. Cralle, 6 vols. (Appleton, 1851-56; reprint, 
1888). 

Biography and Criticism. W. E. Dodd: Statesmen of the Old South 
(Macmillan, 19 n). H. C. Lodge: Democracy of the Constitution, and Other 
Addresses and Essays (Scribner, 1915). W. P. Trent: Southern Statesmen of the 
Old Regime (Crowell, 1897). H. von Hoist: life in American Statesmen Series 
(Houghton, 1883). Daniel Webster: Tribute to Mr. Calhoun, in the Senate, 
April 1, 1850, in Works, Vol. 10 (Little, 1903). 

JOHN COTTON 

Edition. The Bloudy Tenent Washed and made white in the bloud of the 
Lambe (London, 1647). 

Biography. A. W. MacClure: The Life of John Cotton (Boston, 1870). 

J. HECTOR ST. JOHN CREVECCEUR 

Editions. Letters from an American Farmer (London, 1782); reprint, ed. by 
Ludwig Lewisohn (Fox, 1904); ed. by W. B. Blake (Dutton, 1913; Everyman's 
Library). 

JOHN DICKINSON 

Editions. Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania to the Inhabitants of the 
British Colonies (Philadelphia, 1768). Political Writings, 2 vols. (Wilmington, 
1801). 

Biography. C. J. Stille: The Life and Times of John Dickinson (Lippincott, 
1891). 

JONATHAN EDWARDS 

Editions. Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God (Boston, 1741). A careful 
and strict Enquiry into the modern prevailing Notions of that Freedom of Will 
which is supposed to be essential to Moral Agency, Vertue and Vice (Boston, 1754). 
Works, 4 vols. (New York, 1844). Selected Sermons, ed. by H. N. Gardiner 
(Macmillan, 1904). 

Biography and Criticism. A. V. G. Allen: life in American Religious 
Leaders Series (Houghton, 1889). Isaac Crook: Jonathan Edwards (Methodist 
Book Concern, 1903). O. W. Holmes: Pages from an Odd Volume of Life (Hough- 
ton, 1883). A.L.Jones: Early American Philosophers (Macmillan, 1898). Andrew 
Macphail: Essays in Puritanism (Houghton, 1905). L. P. Powell: Heavenly 
Heretics (Putnam, 1909). Samuel Simpson: Jonathan Edwards, a Historical 
Review, in Hartford Seminary Record, Vol. 14, No. 1 (Hartford, 1903). Leslie 
Stephen: Hours in a Library, Vol. 1 (Harper, 1894). 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

Editions. Works, Centenary Edition, ed. by E. W. Emerson, 12 vols. (Hough- 
ton, 1903-4); Little Classic Edition, 12 vols. (Houghton, 1883-94). Journals 
(1820-76), ed. by E. W. Emerson and W. E. Forbes, 10 vols. (Houghton, 1909-14). 



722 AMERICAN PROSE 



Correspondence of Carlyle and Emerson, 2 vols. (Osgood, 1883; enlarged edition, 
Ticknor, 1888; Houghton). Correspondence of John Sterling and Emerson, ed. by 
E. W. Emerson (Houghton, 1897; first in the Atlantic Monthly, July, 1897). Letters 
of Ralph Waldo Emerson to a Friend, ed. by C. E. Norton (Houghton, i8gg). 
Correspondence between Emerson and Hermann Grimm, ed. by F. W. Holls 
(Houghton, 1903; first in the Atlantic Monthly, April, 1903). Records of a Lifelong 
Friendship (letters between Emerson and W. H. Furness) (Houghton, 1910). 
Ralph Waldo Emerson, with Two Early Essays of Emerson's, by E. E. Hale (Lam- 
son, 1896; American Unitarian Association, 1903). Uncollected Writings: Essays, 
Addresses, Poems, Reviews, and Letters, Now First Published in Book Form 
(Lamb Publishing Co., 1912). Essays, First and Second Series; Conduct of Life, 
Nature, and Essays from the Dial; English Traits, and Representative Men; 
Society and Solitude and other Essays (Dutton, 1907-12; Everyman's Library). 

Biography. J. E. Cabot: A Memoir, 2 vols. (Houghton, 1887). E. W. 
Emerson: Emerson in Concord (Houghton, 1889). Richard Garnett: life in Great 
Writers Series (Scott, 1888; bibliography by J. P. Anderson, British Museum). 
O. W. Holmes: life in American Men of Letters Series (Houghton, 1885). F. B. 
Sanborn: life in Beacon Biographies Series (Small, 1901). G. E. Woodberry: life 
in English Men of Letters Series (Macmillan, 1907). — -John Albee: Remembrances 
of Emerson (Cooke, 1901). Louisa M. Alcott: Reminiscences of Ralph Waldo 
Emerson, in Parton's Some Noted Princes, Authors, and Statesmen of Our Times 
(Crowell, 1885). Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke: Recollections of Writers 
(London, 1878). G. W. Curtis: Emerson Lecturing, in From the Easy Chair (Har- 
per, 1902). T. W. Higginson: Contemporaries (Houghton, 1899). Alexander 
Ireland: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Personal Recollections of His Visits to England 
(Simpkin, 1882). J. R. Lowell: Emerson the Lecturer, in Literary Essays, Vol. 1 
(Houghton, 1890; this essay, 1861-68). H. C. Robinson: Diary, April 22, May 2, 
June 9, June 27, 1848 (Hurd, 1877; Houghton). F. B. Sanborn: Recollections of 
Seventy Years, 2 vols. (Badger, 1909). J. B. Thayer: A Western Journey with 
Emerson (Little, 1884). Walt Whitman: Prose Works, pp. 181-84, 189-90 (Small, 
1898). N. P. Willis: Littell's Living Age, March 9, 1850. C. J. Woodbury: Talks 
with Ralph Waldo Emerson (Paul, 1890; Baker). 

Criticism. A. B. Alcott: Ralph Waldo Emerson, an Estimate of His Char- 
acter and Genius (Williams, 1882; DeWolfe). Matthew Arnold: Discourses in 
America (Macmillan, 1885). Atlantic Monthly, February, 1861. Brother Azarias: 
Phases of Thought and Criticism (Houghton, 1892). H. A. Beers: Points at Issue 
(Macmillan, 1904). Augustine Birrell: Obiter Dicta, Second Series (Scribner, 1887). 
Blackwood's Magazine, December, 1847. W. C. Brownell: American Prose Mas- 
ters (Scribner, 1909). John Burroughs: Emerson and the Superlative (1882), 
Matthew Arnold's View of Emerson (1884), Literary Values and Other Papers 
(1902), in Works (Houghton, 1904). J. J. Chapman: Emerson and Other Essays 
(Scribner, 1898). J. H. Choate: Abraham Lincoln and Other Addresses in Eng- 
land (Century Co., 1910). J. C. Collins: Posthumous Essays (Dutton, 1912). 
Concord School of Philosophy: The Genius and Character of Emerson (various 
lectures, 1884) (Osgood, 1885; Houghton). G.W.Cooke: Ralph Waldo Emerson, 
His Life, Writings, and Philosophy (Osgood, 1881; Houghton). G. W. Curtis: 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 723 



Literary and Social Essays (Harper, i8gs). Dugard: Ralph Waldo Emerson, sa 
vie et son oeuvre (Paris, 1907). C. W. Eliot: Atlantic Monthly, June, 1903; Four 
American Leaders (American Unitarian Association, 1906). Karl Federn: Essays 
zur amerikanischen Litteratur (Halle, 1899). O. W. Firkins: Ralph Waldo Emerson 
(Houghton, 1915). Kuno Francke: German Ideals of To-Day (Houghton, 1907; 
this essay, in the International Quarterly, September-December, 1903). J. A. 
Froude: Short Studies on Great Subjects, Vol. 1 (London, 1867; Scribner). P. H. 
Frye: Literary Reviews and Criticisms (Putnam, 1908). Richard Garnett: Essays 
of an Ex-Librarian (Dodd, 1901). G. A. Gordon: Atlantic Monthly, May, 1903. 
Hermann Grimm: Neue Essays iiber Kunst und Litteratur (Berlin, 1865; this 
essay, 1861); Fiinfzehn Essays, Dritte Folge (Berlin, 1882); Essays on Literature, 
tr. by Sarah Adams (Cupples, 1886). R. H. Hutton: Criticism on Contemporary- 
Thought and Thinkers (Macmillan, 1904). A. A. Jack: Poetry and Prose (Dutton, 
191 2). Henry James, Sr.: Literary Remains (Osgood, 1885); Atlantic Monthly, 
December, 1904 (lecture written about 1868). Henry James, Jr.: Partial Portraits 
(Macmillan, 1888). William James: Memories and Studies (Longmans, 1911; 
this address, 1903). Maurice Maeterlinck: Le tresor des humbles, English trans- 
lation (Dodd, 1897). D. L. Maulsby: Emerson, His Contribution to Literature 
(Tufts College Press, 191 1). E. D. Mead: The Influence of Emerson (American 
Unitarian Association, 1903). P. E. More: Shelburne Essays, First Series (Put- 
nam, 1904). John Morley: Critical Miscellanies, Vol. 1 (Macmillan, 1893; this 
essay, 1884). Emile Montegut: Revue des Deux Mondes, July-September, 1847. 
C.E.Norton: Nation, May 30, 1867. W.M.Payne: Leading American Essayists 
(Holt, 1910). Quarterly Review, January, 1864; January, 1888. H. E. Scudder: 
Men and Letters (Houghton, 1887). Canon Sheehan: Early Essays and Lectures 
(Longmans, 1906; this essay, 1884). Leslie Stephen: Studies of a Biographer, 
Vol. 4 (Duckworth, 1902; Putnam). F. H. Underwood: North American Review, 
May, 1880. Walt Whitman: Prose Works, pp. 173, 314-17 (Small, 1898). 

Bibliography. A Bibliography of Ralph Waldo Emerson, by G. W. Cooke 
(Houghton, 1908). 

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN 

Editions. Writings, ed. by John Bigelow, 10 vols. (Putnam, 1887-88); ed. by 
A. H. Smyth, 10 vols. (Macmillan, 1905-7). Autobiography, the Unmutilated and 
Correct Version, ed. by John Bigelow (Putnam, 1909); ed. by A. H. Smyth (Amer- 
ican Book Co., 1907); with introduction by Woodrow Wilson (Century Co., 1901) 
with a Continuation Drawn from His Letters, ed. by E. E. Hale, Jr. (Newson, 1912). 
Poor Richard's Almanac (Caldwell, 1900; reduced facsimile of the almanac for 
1756 in appendix). Selections from the Writings of Franklin, ed. by U. W. Cutler 
(Crowell, 1905). The Wisdom of Benjamin Franklin (reflections and observations 
from his collected papers) (Brentano's, 1906). 

Biography and Criticism. S. G. Fisher: The True Benjamin Franklin 
(Lippincott, 1899). P. L. Ford: The Many-Sided Franklin (Century Co., 1899). 
J. B. McMaster: life in American Men of Letters Series (Houghton, 1887). P. E. 
More: life in Riverside Biographical Series (Houghton, 1900). J. T. Morse: life 
in American Statesmen Series (Houghton, 1889). Lindsay Swift: life in Beacon 



724 AMERICAN PROSE 



Biographies Series (Small, 1910). — J. H. Choate: Abraham Lincoln and Other 
Addresses in England (Century Co., 1910). E. L. Dudley: Benjamin Franklin 
(Macmillan, 1915)- C. W. Eliot: Four American Leaders (American Unitarian 
Association, 1906). E. E. Hale and E. E. Hale, Jr.: Franklin in France, 2 vols. 
(Roberts, 1887-88). Frederic Harrison: Memories and Thoughts (Macmillan, 
1906). H. C. Lodge: A Frontier Town and Other Essays (Scribner, 1906). William 
MacDonald: Atlantic Monthly, October, 1905. P. E. More: Shelburne Essays, 
Fourth Series (Putnam, 1906). C.-A. Sainte-Beuve: Causeries du Lundi, tome 
septieme (Paris); English Portraits (Holt, 1875). 

Bibliography. Franklin Bibliography, by P. L. Ford (Brooklyn, 1889). 

ALEXANDER HAMILTON 

Editions. Works, ed. by H. C. Lodge, 12 vols. (Putnam, 1885-86, 1904). 
The Federalist, ed. by P. L. Ford (Holt, 1898); ed. by H. C. Lodge (Putnam, 
1888); ed. by J. C. Hamilton (Lippincott, 1904); in Everyman's Library (Dutton, 
1911). 

Biography and Criticism. J. H. Choate: Abraham Lincoln and Other 
Addresses in England (Century Co'., 1910). C. A. Conant: life in Riverside Bio- 
graphical Series (Houghton, 1901). W. S. Culbertson: Alexander Hamilton, an 
Essay (Yale University Press, 191 1). A. M. Hamilton: The Intimate Life of 
Alexander Hamilton (Scribner, 19 10). Frederic Harrison: Memories and Thoughts 
(Macmillan, 1906). H. C. Lodge: life in American Statesmen Series (Houghton, 
1883). James Schouler: life in Beacon Biographies Series (Small). W. G. Sumner: 
life in Makers of America Series (Dodd, 1890). 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

Editions. Works, Riverside Edition, with bibliographical notes by G. P. 
Lathrop, 13 vols. (Houghton); New Wayside Edition, 13 vols. (Houghton); Gray- 
lock Edition, introduction by Mary A. Lathrop, notes by H. E. Scudder, 22 vols. 
(Houghton). Hawthorne's First Diary, with an Account of Its Discovery and 
Loss, by S. T. Pickard (Houghton, 1897). Letters of Hawthorne to W. D. Ticknor, 
1851-64 (Carteret Book Club, 1910). 

Biography. M. D. Conway: life in Great Writers Series (Scott, 1891; bibli- 
ography by J. P. Anderson, British Museum). Mrs. J. T. Fields: life in Beacon 
Biographies Series (Small, 1899). Julian Hawthorne: Nathaniel Hawthorne and 
His Wife, 2 vols. (Houghton, 1884). Henry James: life in English Men of Letters 
Series (Harper, 1880). G. E. Woodberry: Nathaniel Hawthorne (Houghton, 
1902). — Horatio Bridge: Personal Recollections of Hawthorne (Harper, 1893). 
H. A. Clarke: Hawthorne's Country (Baker, 1910). J. T. Fields: Hawthorne 
(Osgood, 187 1 ; Houghton); Yesterdays with Authors (Houghton, 187 1). Julian 
Hawthorne: Hawthorne and His Circle (Harper, 1903). Rose Hawthorne Lathrop: 
Memories of Hawthorne (Houghton, 1897). F. B. Sanborn: Hawthorne and His 
Friends (Torch Press, 1908) ; Recollections of Seventy Years, 2 vols. (Badger, 1909). 

Criticism. Blackwood's Magazine, November, 1847 (The American Library). 
W. C. Brownell: American Prose Masters (Scribner, 1909). Maurice Clare: 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 725 



Nathaniel Hawthorne (Doran, 1012). G. W. Curtis: Literary and Social Essays 
(Harper, 1895); North American Review, October, 1864. Edinburgh Review, 
April, 1903 (The Supernatural in Nineteenth-Century Fiction); January, 1906. 
John Erskine: Leading American Novelists (Holt, 1910). P. H. Frye: Literary 
Reviews and Criticisms (Putnam, 1908). T. W. Higginson: The Hawthorne Cen- 
tenary Celebration (Houghton, 1905). Julian Hawthorne: Atlantic Monthly, 
April, 1886. W. D. Howells: My Literary Passions (Harper, 1895). R. H. Hutton: 
Essays, Vol. 2 (Strahan, 1871; Macmillan). Andrew Lang: Adventures among 
Books (Longmans, 1905). G. P. Lathrop: A Study of Hawthorne (Osgood, 1876). 
Richard Le Gallienne: Attitudes and Avowals (Lane, 1910). H. W. Mabie: 
Backgrounds of Literature (Macmillan, 1903). P. E. More: Shelburne Essays, 
First and Second Series (Putnam, 1904, 1905). Bliss Perry: Park Street Papers 
(Houghton, 1908). E. A. Poe: Works, Virginia Edition, Vols. 11, 13 (Crowell, 
1902; reprints of articles in Graham's Magazine, May, 1842, and Godey's Lady's 
Book, November, 1847). Quarterly Review, January, 1867; January, 1883 (Amer- 
ican Novels). H. S. Salt: Literary Sketches (London, 1888). W. T. Scott: Ches- 
terton and Other Essays (Methodist Book Concern, 1912). Leslie Stephen: Hours 
in a Library, Vol. 1 (Putnam, 1894). H. T. Tuckerman: Southern Literary Mes- 
senger, June, 1851. 

Bibliography. A Bibliography of Nathaniel Hawthorne, by N. E. Browne 
(Houghton, 1905). First Editions of Works of Hawthorne (Grolier Club, 1905; 
privately printed). 

PATRICK HENRY 

Edition. Life, Correspondence, and Speeches, ed. by W. W. Henry, 3 vols. 
(Scribner, 1891). 

Biography and Criticism. George Morgan: The True Patrick Henry 
(Lippincott, 1907). Quarterly Review, December, 1840 (American Orators and 
Statesmen). M. C. Tyler: life in American Statesmen Series (Houghton, 1888). 
William Wirt: Sketches of the Life and Character of Patrick Henry (Philadelphia, 
1818; second edition, corrected by the author). 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

Editions. Works, Riverside Edition, 14 vols. (Houghton). Breakfast Table 
Series (including Over the Tea-Cups), 4 vols. (Houghton). Autocrat of the Break- 
fast Table, Reprinted from the Original Edition (Conkey Co., 1900); with intro- 
duction by Richard Burton (Crowell, 1900); ed. by M. C. Rounds (Macmillan, 
1913); in Everyman's Library (Dutton, 1906). Letters to a Classmate, in the 
Century Magazine, October, 1907. 

Biography. S. M. Crothers: life in American Men of Letters Series (Hough- 
ton, in preparation). J. T. Morse, Jr.: Life and Letters of Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
2 vols. (Houghton, 1896). — T. W. Higginson: Old Cambridge (Macmillan, 1899). 
W. D. Howells: Literary Friends and Acquaintance (Harper, 1900). Mary R. 
Mitford: Recollections of a Literary Life (London, 1852). G. W. Smalley: Studies 
of Men (Harper, 1895). J. T. Trowbridge: My Own Story (Houghton, 1903). 

Criticism. Atlantic Monthly, April, 1861. Critic, August 30, 1884 (Holmes 
number). S. M. Crothers: Oliver Wendell Homes, the Autocrat and His Fellow 



726 AMERICAN PROSE 



Boarders (Houghton, 1909; first in the Atlantic Monthly, August, 1909). G. W. 
Curtis: Literary and Social Essays (Harper, 1895). Edinburgh Review, April, 1910. 
H. R. Haweis: American Humourists (Chatto, 1883; Funk). Walter Jerrold: 
Oliver Wendell Holmes (Macmillan, 1893). Andrew Lang: Adventures among 
Books (Longmans, 1905). LittelPs Living Age, March 5, 1859. H. C. Lodge: 
Certain Accepted Heroes and Other Essays in Literature and Politics (Harper, 1897; 
this essay in the North American Review, December, 1894). Quarterly Review, 
January, 1867 (Yankee Humour); January, 1895. Leslie Stephen: Studies of a 
Biographer, Vol. 2 (Duckworth, 1898; Putnam). Bayard Taylor: Critical Essays 
and Literary Notes (Putnam, 1880). 

Bibliography. Bibliography of Oliver Wendell Holmes, by G. B. Ives 
(Houghton, 1907). 

FRANCIS HOPKINSON 

Editions. A Pretty Story (Philadelphia, 1774); reprint, ed. by B. J. Lossing 
(New York, 1857, 1864). Miscellaneous Essays and Occasional Essays, 3 vols. 
(Philadelphia, 1792). 

WASHINGTON IRVING 

Editions. Works, New Knickerbocker Edition, 40 vols. (Putnam, 1891-97); 
Handy Volume Edition, 12 vols. (Putnam, 1912); Student's Edition, 15 vols. (12 
vols, out) (Putnam, 1912-14). Alhambra, ed. by A. M. Hitchcock (Macmiilan, 
1900). Bracebridge Hall (Putnam, 1902). Knickerbocker's History of New York 
(Putnam, 1902); Books 3-7, ed. by E. A. Greenlaw (Macmillan, 1909). Salmagundi, 
ed. by E. A. Duyckinck (Putnam, 1902). Sketch Book (Putnam, 1902); reprint of 
the original edition (Conkey, 1900); ed. by G. P. Krapp (Scott, Foresman, 1906); 
ed. by H. A. Davidson (Heath, 1907); ed. by A. W. Leonard (Holt, 1911); inEvery- 
man's Library (Dutton, 1908); ed. by T. Balston (Oxford University Press, 1913). 
Tales of a Traveller, introduction by Brander Matthews, notes by G. R. Carpenter 
(Longmans, 1895); ed. by J. R. Rutland (American Book Co., 1911). 

Biography. H. W. Boynton: life in Riverside Biographical Series (Houghton, 
1901). P. M. Irving: Life and Letters of Washington Irving, 4 vols. (Putnam, 
1862-63). C. D. Warner: life in American Men of Letters Series (Houghton, 1881). 

Criticism. American Quarterly Review, March, 1829. Blackwood's Maga- 
zine, June, 1822. W. C. Bryant: Prose Writings, Vol. 1 (Appleton, 1884; this 
address, 1859). G. W. Curtis: Literary and Social Essays (Harper, 1895). Edin- 
burgh Review, August, 1820; October, 1829; April, 1835. H. R. Haweis: American 
Humourists (Chatto, 1883; Funk). W. D.Howells: My Literary Passions (Harper, 
1895). H. W. Mabie: Backgrounds of Literature (Macmillan, 1903). W. M. 
Payne: Leading American Essayists (Holt, 19 10). Quarterly P-eview, April, 1821; 
March, 1825; June, 1839; July, 1863. W. M. Thackeray: Nil Nisi Bonum, in 
Roundabout Papers (1862). 

THOMAS JEFFERSON 

Editions. Writings, ed. by P. L. Ford, 12 vols. (Putnam, 1904-5); ed. by 
A. A. Lipscomb and A. E. Bergh, 20 vols. (Thomas Jefferson Memorial Association, 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 727 



1903-4). Autobiography, ed. by P. L. Ford (Putnam, 1914). Letters and Addresses, 
ed. by W. B. Parker and Jonas Viles (Unit Publishing Co., igos; Grosset). 

Biography and Criticism. James Bryce: University and Historical 
Addresses (Macmillan, 1913; this address, 1908). W.E.Curtis: The True Thomas 
Jefferson (Lippincott, 1901). W. E. Dodd: Statesmen of the Old South (Macmillan, 
ign). H. C. Merwin: life in Riverside Biographical Series (Houghton, 1901). 
J. T. Morse, Jr.: life in American Statesmen Series (Houghton, 1884). James 
Schouler: life in Makers of America Series (Dodd, 1893). W. P. Trent: Southern 
Statesmen of the Old Regime (Crowell, 1897). T. E. Watson: life in Beacon 
Biographies Series (Small, 1900); Life and Times of Thomas Jefferson (Appleton, 
1903). J. S. Williams: Thomas Jefferson (Columbia University Press, 1913). 

SARAH K. KNIGHT 

Edition. The Journals of Madame Knight and Rev. Mr. Buckingham, from 
the Original Manuscripts, Written in 1704 and 1710 (New York, 1825). 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

Editions. Works, ed. by J. G. Nicolay and John Hay, 2 vols. (Century Co., 
1894); ed. by J. G. Nicolay and John Hay, 12 vols. (Tandy Co., 1905)- Noted 
Speeches of Abraham Lincoln, including the Lincoln-Douglas Debate, ed. by L. M. 
Briggs (Moffat, 191 1). Speeches and Letters of Abraham Lincoln, in Everyman's 
Library (Dutton, 1907). The Wisdom of Abraham Lincoln, selected and edited by 
Temple Scott (Brentano's, 1908). 

Biography and Criticism. W. E. Curtis: The True Abraham Lincoln 
(Lippincott, 1903). Norman Hapgood: Abraham Lincoln, the Man of the People 
(Macmillan, 1899). W. H. Herndon: History and Personal Recollections of 
Abraham Lincoln, 3 vols. (Belford, 1889). J. T. Morse, Jr.: life in American 
Statesmen Series, 2 vols. (Houghton, 1893). J. G. Nicolay and John Hay: Abra- 
ham Lincoln, a History, 10 vols. (Century Co., 1890). J. G. Nicolay: A Short Life 
of Abraham Lincoln (Century Co., 1902). Rose Strunsky: Abraham Lincoln 
(Macmillan, 19 14). I. M. Tarbell: The Life of Abraham Lincoln, 2 vols. (Double- 
day, 1900; Macmillan). Brand Whitlock: life in Beacon Biographies Series 
(Small, 1909). — James Bryce: University and Historical Addresses (Macmillan, 
1913; this address, 1909). D. K. Dodge: Abraham Lincoln, the Evolution of 
His Literary Style (University of Illinois, 1900). R. W. Gilder: Lincoln the Leader, 
and Lincoln's Genius for Expression (Houghton, 1909). Frederic Harrison: George 
Washington and Other Addresses (Macmillan, 1901). H. C. Lodge: Democracy 
of the Constitution and Other Addresses and Essays (Scribner, 1915). J. R. Lowell: 
Political Essays (Houghton, 1871; this essay, 1864-5). Helen Nicolay: Personal 
Traits of Abraham. Lincoln (Century Co., 1912). Carl Schurz: Abraham Lincoln, 
an Essay (Houghton, 1891). Goldwin Smith: Macmillan's Magazine; reprinted 
in Littell's Living Age, March 4, 1865. 

Bibliography. Abraham Lincoln, a Bibliography, by L. E. Russell (Torch 
Press, 1910). 



728 AMERICAN PROSE 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 

Editions. Works, Riverside Edition, n vols. (Houghton, 1890-92). Prose 
Works, Riverside Edition, 7 vols. (Houghton, 1899). 

Biography. Ferris Greenslet: James Russell Lowell, His Life and Work 
(Houghton, 1905). E. E. Hale, Jr.: life in the Beacon Biographies Series (Small, 
1899). H. E. Scudder: James Russell Lowell, a Biography, 2 vols. (Houghton, 
1901). Henry van Dyke: life in the English Men of Letters Series (Macmillan, in 
preparation). — Atlantic Monthly, January, 1897. E. E. Hale: Lowell and His 
Friends (Houghton, 1899). T. W. Higginson: Old Cambridge (Macmillan, 1899); 
Cheerful Yesterdays (Houghton, 1898); Contemporaries (Houghton, 1899). W. D. 
Howells: Literary Friends and Acquaintance (Harper, 1900). Edwin Mims: 
South Atlantic Quarterly, January, 1902. G. W. Smalley: London Letters and 
Some Others (Harper, 1890). R. H. Stoddard: Recollections Personal and Literary 
(Barnes, 1903). J. T. Trowbridge (Houghton, 1903). M. C. Tyler: Selections 
from His Letters and Diaries, pp. 139-43 (Doubleday, 1911). Barrett Wendell: 
Stelligeri (Scribner, 1893). 

Criticism. Joel Benton: Century Magazine, November, 1891. W. C. 
Brownell: American Prose Masters (Scribner, 1909). G. W. Curtis: Orations and 
Addresses, Vol. 3 (Harper, 1894; this address, 1892). Edinburgh Review, October, 
1891; January, 1900. Canon Farrar: Forum, October, 1891. W. D. Howells: 
My Literary Passions (Harper, 1895). Henry James, Jr.: Essays in London and 
Elsewhere (Harper, 1893). C.E.Norton: Harper's Magazine, May, 1893. Gustav 
Pollak: International Perspective in Criticism (Dodd, 1914). Quarterly Review, 
July, 1902. J.J. Reilly: James Russell Lowell as a Critic (Putnam, 1915). William 
Watson: Excursions in Criticism (Macmillan, 1893). G. E. Woodberry: Makers 
of Literature (Macmillan, igoo). 

Bibliography. A Bibliography of James Russell Lowell, by G. W. Cooke 
(Houghton, 1906). A Bibliography of the First Editions in Book Form of the 
Writings of James Russell Lowell, by J. C. Chamberlain and L. S. Livingston (New 
York, privately printed, 1914). 

JOHN MASON 

Editions. A Brief History of the Pequot War (Boston, 1736; written, 1670); 
reprint in Collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Second Series, Vol. 8 
(Boston, 1819); reprint, ed. by Charles Orr (Cleveland, 1897). 

COTTON MATHER 

Editions. The Wonders of the Invisible World (Boston, 1693); reprint in 
Library of Old Authors Series (London, 1862); reprint (Scribner). Magnalia 
Christi Americana: or, the Ecclesiastical History of New-England (London, 1702); 
reprint, 2 vols. (Hartford, 1820, 1855, 1870). Bonifacius, an Essay upon the 
Good, etc. (Boston, 17 10); reprint as Essays to Do Good (Glasgow, 1825). 

Biography. A. P. Marvin: The Life and Times of Cotton Mather (Congre- 
gational Publishing Society, 1892). Barrett Wendell: life in the Makers of America 
Series (Dodd, 1891). — G. L. Kittredge: Cotton Mather's Election into the Royal 
Society, in Publications of the Colonial Society of Massachusetts, Vol. 14 (J. Wilson's 
Son, 1912). Outlook, October 7, 14, 1905. 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 729 



INCREASE MATHER 

Editions. An Essay for the Recording of Illustrious Providences (Boston 
1684); reprint as Remarkable Providences Illustrative of the Earlier Days of 
American Colonisation, in Library of Old Authors Series (London, 1856; Reeves, 
1890); reprint (Scribner). A Further Account of the Tryals of the New-England 
Witches (London, 1693); reprint in Library of Old Authors Series, in same volume 
with Cotton Mather's Wonders of the Invisible World (London, 1862). 
Criticism. Andrew Lang: Letters to Dead Authors (Scribner, 1893). 

THOMAS MORTON 

Editions. New English Canaan (Amsterdam, 1637); reprint in Force's 
Tracts, Vol. 2 (Washington, 1836-46); reprint, ed. by C.F.Adams, in Publications 
of the Prince Society (Boston, 1883). 

THOMAS PAINE 

Editions. Common Sense (Philadelphia, 1776). Common Sense and The 
American Crisis (Putnam, 19 12). The Rights of Man, in Everyman's Library 
(Dutton, 1915). Works, ed. by M. D. Conway, 4 vols. (Putnam, 1894-96). 

Biography. M. D. Conway: Life of Thomas Paine, 2 vols. (Putnam, 1892). 
Ellery Sedgwick: life in Beacon Biographies Series (Small, 1899). 

EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Editions. Works, Virginia Edition, ed. by J. A. Harrison, 17 vols. (Crowell, 
1902); ed. by E. C. Stedman and G. E. Woodberry, 10 vols. (Stone, 1894-95; 
Duffield); ed. by C. F. Richardson, 10 vols. (Putnam, 1904). Tales, 5 vols. (Put- 
nam). Essays and Stories, in Bohn Popular Library (Macmillan, 1914). Selections 
from the Critical Writings, ed. by F. C. Prescott (Holt, 1909). Last Letters of 
Edgar Allan Poe to Sarah Helen Whitman, ed. by J. A. Harrison (Putnam, 1909). 

Biography. J. A. Harrison: life in Works, Virginia Edition, Vol. 1 (Crowell, 
1902). J. H. Ingram: Edgar Allan Poe, His Life, Letters, and Opinions, 2 vols. 
(Cassell, 1880; second edition, 1 vol., 1886). John Macy: life in Beacon Biog- 
raphies Series (Small, 1907). W. P. Trent: life in English Men of Letters Series 
(Macmillan, in preparation). G. E. Woodberry: The Life of Edgar Allan Poe, 
2 vols. (Houghton, 1909; enlarged form of the life in the American Men of Letters 
Series, 1885). — Joel Benton: In the Poe Circle (Mansfield, 1899). P. A. Bruce: 
Background of Poe's University Life, in the South Atlantic Quarterly, July, 191 1. 
R. A. Douglass-Lithgow: Individuality of Edgar Allan Poe, with Numerous Scarce 
Portraits (Everett Publishing Co., 1911). E. Lauvriere: Edgar Poe, sa vie et son 
oeuvre (Paris, 1904). R. H. Stoddard: Recollections Personal and Literary (Barnes, 
1903). S. A. Weiss: The Home Life of Poe (Broadway Publishing Co., 1907). 
Sarah H.Whitman: Poe and His Critics (New York, i860; Tibbitts, 1885; Preston 
& Rounds Co.). N. P. Willis: Hurrygraphs (London and New York, 1851). 

Criticism. Arvede Barine: Revue des Deux Mondes, July 15, August 1, 1897. 
Charles Baudelaire: Edgar Poe, sa vie et ses ceuvres, in Histoires extraordinaires 
(Paris, 1852); translated by H. Curwen (London, 1872). W. C. Brownell: Ameri- 
can Prose Masters (Scribner, 1909). Palmer Cobb: The Influence of E. T. A. 



730 AMERICAN PROSE 



Hoffman on the Tales of Edgar Allan Poe (University of North Carolina Press, 
igo8); South Atlantic Quarterly, January, 1909. Edinburgh Review, April, 1858; 
April, 1903 (The Supernatural in Nineteenth-Century Fiction); January, 1910. 
L. E. Gates: Studies and Appreciations (Macmillan, 1900). Emile Hennequin: 
Ecrivains francises (Paris, 1889). Andrew Lang: Letters to Dead Authors (Scrib- 
ner, 1893). H. W. Mabie: Poe's Place in American Literature, in Works, Virginia 
Edition, Vol. 2 (Crowell, 1902). J. A. Macy: Atlantic Monthly, December, 1908. 
Brander Matthews: Inquiries and Opinions (Scribner, 1907). William Minto: 
Fortnightly Review, July 1, 1880; reprinted in Littell's Living Age, September 11, 
1880. Modern Philology, June, 1904. P. E. More: Shelburne Essays, First Series 
(Putnam, 1904). North American Review, October, 1856. Publications of the 
Modern Language Association, March, 1904. Arthur Ransome: Edgar Allan Poe, 
a Critical Study (Seeker, 1910). J. M. Robertson: New Essays towards a Critical 
Method (Lane, 1897; this essay, 1885). Southern Literary Messenger, March, 
1850. W.P.Trent: Longfellow and Other Essays (Crowell, 19 10). University of 
Virginia: The Book of the Poe Centenary, 1909 (University of Virginia, 1909). 
Barrett Wendell: The Mystery of Education (Scribner, 1909). 

MARY ROWLANDSON 

Editions. The Soveraignty & Goodness of God, Being a Narrative of the 
Captivity and Restauration of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson (Cambridge, 1682; second 
edition); facsimile reprint, by H. S. Nourse and J. E. Thayer (Lancaster, 1903); 
reprint in Narratives of the Indian Wars, 1675-99, ed. by C. H. Lincoln (Scribner, 

1913)- 

SAMUEL SEABURY 

Edition. Free Thoughts on the Proceedings of the Continental Congress 
(New York, 1774). 

Biography. W. J. Seabury: Memoir of Bishop Seabury (Gorham, 1908). 

SAMUEL SEWALL 

Edition. Diary of Samuel Sewall, 1674-1729, in Collections of the Massa- 
chusetts Historical Society, Fifth Series, Vols. 5-7 (Boston, 1878-82). 

Biography. N. H. Chamberlain: Samuel Sewall and the World He Lived 
in (DeWolfe). 

THOMAS SHEPARD 

Editions. The Sincere Convert (London, 1655). Works, with a Memoir by 
J. A. Albro, 3 vols. (Boston, 1853). 

JOHN SMITH 

Editions. A True Relation of such occurrences and accidents of noate as 
hath hapned in Virginia since the first planting of that Collony (London, 1608). A 
Map of Virginia (Oxford, 1612). Works, ed. by Edward Arber, in English Scholar's 
Library, 2 vols. (Birmingham, 1884). Travels and Works, ed. by Edward Arber, 
new edition, with introduction by A. G. Bradley, 2 vols. (Edinburgh, igio). Gen- 
erall Historie of Virginia, New England & the Summer Isles, together with The 
True Travels, Adventures & Observations, and A Sea Grammar, 2 vols. (Macmillan, 
1907). True Travels and Adventures of Captain John Smith, and General History 



BIBLIOGRAPHY 731 

of Virginia, New England and the Summer Isles, Books 1-3, ed. by E. A. Benians 
(Putnam, 1909). 

Biography. A. G. Bradley: Captain John Smith (Macmillan, 1905)- C. H. 
A.Forbes-Lindsay: Captain John Smith, Adventurer (Lippincott, 1907). T. Jenks: 
Captain John Smith (Century Co., 1904). Rossiter Johnson: Captain John Smith 
(Macmillan, 1915). E. B. Smith: Pocahontas and Captain John Smith (Houghton, 

1906). 

HENRY D. THOREAU 

Editions. Works, Riverside Edition, 11 vols. (Houghton, 1854-81); River- 
side Pocket Edition, 11 vols. (Houghton, 1915); Manuscript Edition, 20 vols. 
(Houghton, 1906). Works (Cape Cod, Excursions, The Maine Woods, Walden, A 
Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers), 5 vols. (Crowell, 1914). Walden, ed. 
by P. H. Allen (Houghton, 1910); ed. by R. M. Alden (Longmans, 1910); ed. by 
Byron Rees (Macmillan, 1910); with introduction by T. Watts-Dunton (Oxford 
University Press); in Everyman's Library (Dutton, 1908). Familiar Letters, ed. 
by F. B. Sanborn (Houghton, 1894). 

Biography. H. S. Salt: life in Great Writers Series (Scott, 1896; bibliography 
by J. P. Anderson, British Museum). F. B. Sanborn: life in American Men of 
Letters Series (Houghton, 1882). 

Criticism. Atlantic Monthly, March, October, 1865. John Burroughs: 
Indoor Studies (Houghton, 1889). Catholic World, June, 1878. G. H. Ellwanger: 
Idyllists of the Countryside (Dodd, 1896). R. W. Emerson: Thoreau, in Lectures 
and Biographies (Houghton, 1883; this essay first in the Atlantic Monthly, August, 
1862). P. A. Graham: Nature in Books (London, 1891). J. R. Lowell: Literary 
Essays, Vol. 1 (Houghton, 1890; this essay, 1865). P. E. More: Shelburne Essays, 
First and Fifth Series (Putnam, 1904, 1908). W. M. Payne: Leading American 
Essayists (Holt, 1910). F. B. Sanborn: Recollections of Seventy Years, 2 vols. 
(Badger, 1909). Saturday Review, Vol. 18, 1864. R. L. Stevenson: Familiar 
Studies of Men and Books (Chatto, 1882). T. Watts-Dunton: Henry Thoreau 
(Torch Press, 1910). 

Bibliography. Bibliography of Henry David Thoreau, by F. H. Allen 

(Houghton, 1908). 

NATHANIEL WARD 

Editions. The Simple Cobler of Aggawam in America (London, 1647); 
reprint in Force's Tracts, Vol. 3 (Washington, 1836-46); ed., with Essay, by 
Thomas Waters (Ipswich Historical Society, 1905). 

GEORGE WASHINGTON 

Editions. Works, ed. by W. C. Ford, 14 vols. (Putnam, 1889-93)- Writings, 
ed. by L. B. Evans (Putnam, 1908). 

Biography and Criticism. P. L. Ford: The True George Washington 
(Lippincott, 1896). W. C. Ford: George Washington, 2 vols. (Scribner, 1900); 
life in Beacon Biographies Series (Small, 1910). E. E. Hale: The Life of George 
Washington Studied Anew (Putnam, 1888). Norman Hapgood: George Washing- 
ton (Macmillan, 1901). H. C. Lodge: life in American Statesmen Series, 2 vols. 
(Houghton, 1889). James O'Boyle: The Life of George Washington (Longmans, 
1915). Woodrow Wilson: George Washington (Harper, 1896).— C. W. Eliot: Four 



732 AMERICAN PROSE 



American Leaders (American Unitarian Association, 1906). Frederic Harrison: 
George Washington and Other Addresses (Macmillan, 1001). W.P.Trent: South- 
ern Statesmen of the Old Regime (Crowell, 1897). Henry van Dyke: The Amer- 
icanism of Washington (Harper, 1906). 

DANIEL WEBSTER 

Editions. Writings and Speeches, 18 vols. (Little, 1903). The Speeches and 
Orations (Little, igo2). Daniel Webster for Young Americans, Comprising the 
Greatest Speeches, ed. by C. F. Richardson (Little, 1906). Select Speeches, ed. by 
A. J. George (Heath). 

Biography and Criticism. S. G. Fisher: The True Daniel Webster (Lippin- 
cott, 191 1). H. C. Lodge: life in American Statesmen Series (Houghton, 1884); 
A Fighting Frigate and Other Essays and Addresses (Scribner, 1902). J. B. 
McMaster: Daniel Webster (Century Co., 1902). — Brownson's Quarterly Review, 
January, 1852. Mellen Chamberlain: John Adams, with Other Essays and Ad- 
dresses (Houghton, 1898). Edinburgh Review, June, 1829. Edward Everett: 
Orations and Speeches, Vols. 3 and 4 (Little, 1850-68). G. F. Hoar: Scribner's 
Magazine, July, 1899. H. N. Hudson: Essays on English Studies (Ginn, 1906; this 
address, 1882). North American Review, July, 1852. Proceedings of the Webster 
Centennial at Dartmouth College, 1901 (Hanover, 1901). Quarterly Review, 
December, 1840. E. P. Whipple: Essays and Reviews, Vol. 1 (New York, 1848; 
this essay first in the North American Review, July, 1844). 

ROGER WILLIAMS 

Editions. The Bloudy Tenent of Persecution for cause of Conscience, dis- 
cuss'd in a Conference betweene Truth and Peace (London, 1644). Life, Letters, 
and Works, in Publications of the Narragansett Club, 6 vols. (Providence, 1866-74). 

Biography and Criticism. E. J. Carpenter: Roger Williams (Grafton Press, 
1909). O. S. Strauss: Life of Roger Williams (Century Co., 1894). 

JOHN WINTHROP 

Editions. The History of New England from 1630 to 1649, from His Original 
Manuscripts, ed. by James Savage, 2 vols. (Boston, 1825-26); ed. by J. K. Hosmer, 
2 vols. (Scribner, 1908). Some Old Puritan Love-Letters, 1618-38, ed. by J. H. 
Twichell (Dodd, 1893). 

Biography and Criticism. J. H. Twichell: life in Makers of America Series 
(Dodd, 1891). R. C. Winthrop: Life and Letters of John Winthrop, 2 vols. (Little, 
1863). — Andrew Macphail: Essays in Puritanism. (Houghton, 1905). 

JOHN WOOLMAN 

Editions. A Journal of the Life, Gospel Labours, and Christian Experiences 
of That Faithful Minister of Jesus Christ, John Woolman (Philadelphia, 1774; in 
Works). Journal, with introduction by J. G. Whittier (Osgood, 1873; new edition, 
Houghton, 1909). Journal, with Other Writings (Macmillan, 1903); in Everyman's 
Library, with introduction by V. D. Scudder (Dutton, 19 10). 

Biography and Criticism. J. F. Newton: Wesley and Woolman (Abingdon 
Press, 1914). W.T. Shore: John Woolman, His Life and Times (Macmillan, 1914). 
G. M. Trevelyan: Clio, a Muse, and Other Essays (Longmans, 1913). 



INDICES 



INDICES 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



Allen, Ethan (1737-89), 200 

Bradford, William (c. 1590-1657), 7 
Byrd, William (1674-1744), 113 

Calhoun, John C. (1782-1850), 589 
Cotton, John (1585-1652), 34 
Crevecoeur, J. Hector St. John (1731- 
1813), 138 

Dickinson, John (1732-1808), 176 

Edwards, Jonathan (1703-58), 122 
Emerson, Ralph Waldo (1803-82), 345 

Franklin, Benjamin (1706-90), 148 

Hamilton, Alexander (1757-1804), 216 
Hawthorne, Nathaniel (1804-64), 406 
Henry, Patrick (1736-99), 197 
Holmes, Oliver Wendell (1809-94), 498 
Hopkinson, Francis (1737-91), 183 

Irving, Washington (1783-1859), 224 

Jefferson, Thomas (1743-1826), 205 

Knight, Sarah K. (1666-1727), 105 



Lincoln, Abraham (1809-65), 647 
Lowell, James Russell (1819-91), 536 

Mason, John (c. 1600-c. 1672), 50 
Mather, Cotton (1663-1728), 71 
Mather, Increase (1639-1723), 63 
Morton, Thomas (?-c. 1646), 16 

Paine, Thomas (1737-1809), 202 
Poe, Edgar Allan (1809-49), 280 

Rowlandson, Mary (- 



-), 54 

Seabury, Samuel (1729-96), 180 
Sewall, Samuel (1652-1730), 89 
Shepard, Thomas (1605-49), 29 
Smith, John (1579-1631), 1 

Thoreau, Henry D. (1817-62), 474 

Ward, Nathaniel (c. 1578-1652), 42 
Washington, George (1732-99), 209 
Webster, Daniel (1782-1852), 608 
Williams, Roger (c. 1600-83), 33 
Winthrop, John (1588-1649), 17 
Woolman, John (1720-72), 133 



INDEX OF TITLES 



A Bewitched Child (from Magnalia 
Christi Americana) , 83 

A Bewitched House (from An Essay for 
the Recording of Illustrious Provi- 
dences), 63 

A Boyish Leader (from The Autobiog- 
raphy of Benjamin Franklin), 148 

Abraham Lincoln, 544 

A Brief History of the Pequot War, 50 

A Colonial Schoolmaster (from The 
History of New England), 20 

Address at Cooper Institute, 647 

Address at the Dedication of the Gettys- 
burg National Cemetery, 666 



A Descent into the Maelstrom, 280 

A History of New York, 224 

A Letter to the President of Congress, 
211 

A Map of Virginia, 4 

A Narrative of Col. Ethan Allen's 
Captivity, 200 

A Narrative of the Captivity, 54 

An Essay for the Recording of Illustri- 
ous Providences, 63 

Answer to Congress on His Appointment 
as Commander-in-Chief, 209 

Anti-Episcopal Mice (from The His- 
tory of New England), 23 



735 



736 



AMERICAN PROSE 



A Pretty Story, 183 

A Progress to the Mines, 119 

A Puritan Blue-Stocking (from The 

History of New England), 25 
A Puritan to His Wife, 17 
A Reply to the Aforesaid Answer of 

Mr. Cotton (from The Bloudy Tenent 

of Persecution), 36 
A Spiritual Vision (from The Journal of 

John Woolman), 136 
A Theological Commonwealth (from 

The History of New England), 19 
A True Relation, 1 
At Sea (from Leaves from My Journal 

in Italy and Elsewhere), 536 

Behavior, 391 

Benevolent Cunning (from The Auto- 
biography of Benjamin Franklin), 156 
Brute Neighbors (from Walden), 487 

Captain Phips's Search for Sunken 
Treasure (from Magnalia Christi 
Americana), 77 

Carlyle, 564 

Common Sense, 202 

Dialogue between Franklin and the 

Gout, 168 
Divine Discipline (from The History of 

New England), 23 
Dr. Heidegger's Experiment, 418 

Enquiry into the Freedom of the Will, 
128 

Entrance into Philadelphia (from The 
Autobiography of Benjamin Frank- 
lin), 150 

Farewell Address, 214 

Feathertop; a Moralized Legend, 455 

Free Thoughts on the Proceedings of the 
Continental Congress, 180 

Further Defects of the Present Constitu- 
tion (from The Federalist), 216 

Heresy Punished (from The History 

of New England), 24 
History of the Dividing Line, 1 13 

John Eliot, Apostle to the Indians (from 
Magnalia Christi Americana), 82 

Learning to Write (from The Autobiog- 
raphy of Benjamin Franklin), 149 



Leaves from My Journal in Italy and 

Elsewhere, 536 
Legend of the Arabian Astrologer (from 

The Alhambra), 264 
Letters (of Benjamin Franklin), 173 
Letters from a Farmer in Pennsylvania, 

176 
Letters from an American Farmer, 138 

Magnalia Christi Americana, 77 

Nature, 377 

New English Canaan, 16 

Of Plimoth Plantation, 7 

On Snakes; and on the Humming Bird 

(from Letters from an American 

Farmer), 142 

Preternatural Phenomena (from The 
History of New England), 25 

Probation of Witches by Cold Water 
(from An Essay for the Recording of 
Illustrious Providences), 67 

Rappaccini's Daughter, 428 

Religion (from The Autobiography of 
Benjamin Franklin), 151 

Religious Scruples against Dyed Gar- 
ments (from The Journal of John 
Woolman), 134 

Rip Van Winkle (from The Sketch 
Book), 229 

Second Inaugural Address, 667 
Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, 

124 
Slavery (from The Journal of John 

Woolman), 133 
Speech in the Virginia Convention of 

Delegates, 197 
Speech on the Slavery Question, 589 
Success in Business (from The Auto- 
biography of Benjamin Franklin), 151 

Tales of a Traveller, 252 

The Alhambra, 264 

The American Scholar, 345 

The Answer of Mr. John Cotton (from 

The Bloudy Tenent of Persecution), 

34 
The Autobiography (of Benjamin 

Franklin), 148 
The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table, 



INDICES 



737 



The Bloudy Tenent of Persecution for 

Cause of Conscience, 33 
The Constitution and the Union, 608 
The Declaration of Independence, 205 
The Diary {of Samuel Sewall), 8g 
The Ephemera, 166 
The Fall of the House of Usher, 295 
The Federalist, 216 
The First Winter (from Of Plimoth 

Plantation), 11 
The History of New England, 19 
The Impious Doctrine of Toleration 

(from The Simple Cobler of Ag- 

gawam), 42 
The Journal (of John Woolman), 133 
The Journal (of Sarah K. Knight), 105 
The Minister's Black Veil, 406 
The Mutability of Literature (from The 

Sketch Book), 243 
The Over-Soul, 362 
The Pilgrims' Search for a Harbor (from 

Of Plimoth Plantation), 7 
The Pit and the Pendulum, 313 
The Preface (from The Bloudy Tenent 

of Persecution), 33 
The Purloined Letter, 327 
The Pursuit of Moral Perfection (from 

The Autobiography of Benjamin 

Franklin), 152 

The Simple Cobler of Aggawam, 42 
The Sincere Convert, 29 
The Sketch Book, 229 
The Snake in the Synod (from The 
History of New England), 27 



The Special Hand of God (from The 

History of New England), 28 
The Strolling Manager (from Tales of 

a Traveller), 252 
The Sweet Glory of God, 122 
The Trial of Bridget Bishop: alias, 

Oliver (from The Wonders of the 

Invisible World), 71 
The Unanimous Declaration of the 

Thirteen United States of America, 

205 

The Way to Wealth, 158 

The Wonders of the Invisible World, 71 

Thomas Hooker (from Magnalia Christi 

Americana), 80 
To Benjamin Webb, 174 
To Mrs. Jane Mecom, 173 
To Mrs. Martha Washington, 209 
To Samuel Mather, 175 

Ungodly Doings at Merry Mount (from 
Of Plimoth Plantation), 14 

Walden, 474 

What Is an American? (from Letters 

from an American Farmer), 138 
Where I Lived, and What I Lived For 

(from Walden), 474 
Whitefield's Eloquence (from The Auto- 
biography of Benjamin Franklin), 

155 
Witchcraft (from The History of New 

England), 26 
Women's Fashions and Long Hair on 

Men (from The Simple Cobler of 

Aggawam), 46 



314-77-7 



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